


Here We Stand Watching The World End

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Animal Kingdom (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: All the Warnings Apply, Almost should warn them all because I just don't know, Alternate Universe, Apocalypse, But if the world is ending - there will probably be death at some point, Canon Divergence, F/M, Forget whatever parts of canon you feel like forgetting, Fuck it - it's the end of the world and all that jazz, IF FICTION TRIGGERS YOU THEN DON'T READ FICTION, M/M, Multi, Post-Apocalypse, Read chapter warnings, Secondary character deaths, Violence, i'll add tags as i go, road trip to the end of the world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-03-29 21:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 31
Words: 85,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19028065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: I DON'T WRITE FLUFFThe summer sun is blindingly bright. Squinting towards the sky, the sky where they’ve confirmed three weeks from now will be blisteringly bright and exploding before their very eyes as the universe comes crashing to a grinding halt. It’s been like a hundred fucking degrees every day this year. At first they said it was just a heatwave, just a weather cycle, nothing to do with global climate change, nothing to do with Mother Nature and her wrath. Nothing to do with life cycles and death cycles and extinction and survival of the fittest.Then it changed. It all changed when NASA released a report about the Earth orbiting closer and closer to the sun at an alarming rate. If the giant asteroid doesn’t do the trick this summer, then the pull of the sun will. Unless the asteroid only wipes out half the world and it’s enough to throw the Earth further out in orbit, but not too far out in orbit to be so far away that the environment is inhospitable anyway. There’s like a .000001% chance in fucking hell that anyone will survive this shit.





	1. The Beginning Of The End

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not super familiar with apocalyptic type stories/movies, but that could be the fun in it I guess. Wrap all the cliches up into one giant disaster and see how long these three could make it. 
> 
> Apparently we're going all the way - as in road trip to the end of the world, the end of the world as we know it and a post-apocalypse. So buckle up. Oh and we're doing the Animal Kingdom crossover with this one but you don't need to watch AK to figure out the characters. I will treat them as OC's with notes about them in the chapter notes. And they don't show up until a bit later.

“Yo, you gotta leave behind the things that never stood a chance Mandy,” he shouts it into her bedroom where he can hear her packing their dead mom’s china, “Mom’s china is one of ‘em,” before mumbling as he stares at the photo of Ian, “and all our original plans.”

“What?!”

“Mom’s china…”

“The last part.”

“Nothin’. Just get the shit you need bitch and let’s get the fuck out before the wave of shitbags leaves the city.”

“I heard you the first fifty fucking times Mick.”

“Then why ain’t you ready?”

“I just…”

He cranes his neck so he can see her through the open doorway, “not the china.”

“Just one? Please Mick. We’re going to need something to drink out of anyway.”

“Yeah. Like a fucking camelback or fuckever. Not a fucking china cup.”

She’s holding it in her hand like it contains all of her memories of her mother. And if she leaves it behind, then she’ll be leaving her mother’s memory behind.

“Fine, fine, pack it. Just make sure you roll it up in fuckin’ bubble wrap first. I ain’t takin’ the blame for it breakin’.”

Fuck, she looks like he just told her that the world was not in fact ending. She won’t say thank you or anything soft like that. Milkoviches don’t do soft. But her smile says enough, “you get a hold of Iggy yet?”

“Yeah. ‘Pparently he’s still insistin’ on watching from the Willis Tower.”

She rolls her eyes, “those tickets are like a million bucks a piece and they sold out in seconds. Everyone just wants to sit back and watch the world end from the highest point in Chicago. It’s going to be so crowded down there, he’ll never get through.”

“Yeah well, he packed all the automatic and the semi-autos so I think he’s plannin’ on killin’ his way up. Gonna die, might as well do it in a blaze of fuckin’ glory or in his case trippin’ balls and takin’ lives like nothin’ more than fish in a barrel.”

“And Colin?”

“Fuck knows,” he shrugs, cracking his knuckles and working out his neck, “guess it’s just us,” shrugging a pack loaded to the max with supplies onto his shoulders, “get movin’.”

Mickey takes one last long look around the house. The place he grew up in. The place with the stained carpet and the chipped linoleum. The peeling paint and the creaking pipes. The place where his mother took her last breath and his father smacked him senseless for the first time, “good riddance,” mumbling on his way out.

The summer sun is blindingly bright. Squinting towards the sky, the sky where they’ve confirmed three weeks from now will be blisteringly bright and exploding before their very eyes as the universe comes crashing to a grinding halt. It’s been like a hundred fucking degrees every day this year. At first they said it was just a heatwave, just a weather cycle, nothing to do with global climate change, nothing to do with Mother Nature and her wrath. Nothing to do with life cycles and death cycles and extinction and survival of the fittest.  
Then it changed. It all changed when NASA released a report about the Earth orbiting closer and closer to the sun at an alarming rate. If the giant asteroid doesn’t do the trick this summer, then the pull of the sun will. Unless the asteroid only wipes out half the world and it’s enough to throw the Earth further out in orbit, but not too far out in orbit to be so far away that the environment is inhospitable anyway. There’s like a .000001% chance in fucking hell that anyone will survive this shit. 

But, well, if anyone will, it’s the Milkovich cockroaches. It ain’t like Mickey’s got much of a reason to live or nothing like that, not without those green eyes making him feel like his soul is being drawn to the surface and like it’s worth it to scratch and claw and punch and fight his way out of this. But those green eyes are stayin’ right here with the rest of the Gallagher fuckheads, all piled up in their basement surroundin’ themselves with sandbags and thinkin’ if they survive the asteroid, somehow livin’ in the basement for a decade will keep them from being exposed to whatever radioactive waste is going to be flooding through Chicago from the years of industry down on the shore. Whatever the fuck was in that barrel of shit that Iggy and Colin and Mickey hauled out of one of the abandoned warehouses, that shit was nothin’ to sneeze at. No shit, if a zombie could be a real fuckin’ thing, it’d be from whatever that fuckin’ shit was gettin’ into the drinking water.

He lights a cig and leans against the porch support, “Mandy, hurry the fuck up!”

“I’m coming, fuck. You act like we’re running from the end of the world or something.”

“Yeah and the fuckin’ jokes about it aren’t going to get real old real fast.”

“Sarcasm bites again,” she appears in the doorway with a furled brow, patting her pants pocket, “hold on.”

“Fuck, Jesus, fuck Mandy, come the fuck on. I want to be as far away from this fucking city as possible by nightfall. So far we ain’t doin’ so hot.”

“I don’t have any lighters!”

“You really think we ain’t gonna knock over every joint we pass between here and the middle of fuckin’ nowhere bumfuck Michigan.”

“Bumfuck, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” the voice startles him, like his senses hadn’t already honed in on him way back when he was still three blocks away and walking down this way like he hadn’t a care in the world or a reason to hurry.

Mickey shrugs, “well, I wouldn’t normally turn it the fuck down. But we gotta move.”

“I know,” he shrugs under the weight of his own pack, “I’m moving with you.”

“Huh? Thought you said you were holdin’ down the fuckin’ Gallagher fort.”

“Changed my mind,” a languid smile is rising and his eyes are twinkling as they scan Mickey’s body from head to toe, “besides it’s getting weird over there. Kev and V are already talking about how they’ll have to repopulate the Earth and if all that’s left are them and a bunch of Gallaghers then they’ll have to share and Fiona better have her tubes ready and Lip better be ready to mix in with V to up their chances and as soon as Kev’s eyes landed on me…”

“Alright, enough. We ain’t repoplulatin’ no Earth either, so… shit, fuck. You know what I should have fuckin’ done? I should have learned how to fuckin’ weld or some shit and made a chastity belt for Mandy. What if we do survive and some hillbilly fuck up north thinks he’s gotta…”

“I wouldn’t wear one anyway Mick,” she’s back, “you comin’ now too?”

“Yeah. Yeah, and I, um, I got us a vehicle.”

“Coulda fuckin’ said that firecrotch.”

“You didn’t exactly give me a chance, come on,” cocking his head to point the direction.

————

“Fuck, it’s hot as balls. We better be almost there Gallagher and whatever fuckin’ vehicle better have some fuckin’ air conditioning.”

He snorts out a response that Mickey can’t translate or maybe doesn’t feel like translating, but the lanky fucker tosses his pack over the fence behind the fuckin’ Army depot or fuckever it is. The place they keep all the fuckin’ tanks. Him and Iggy used to come down here when they were young and get all hot and bothered over the itch to shoot some shit. Those fuckin’ machine guns, fuck, it almost made Mickey want to join the service. 

Big Red is already on the other side of the fence while Mickey is cupping his hands for Mandy to step into. Ain’t like she needs the boost, bitch has probably scaled more fences just running out of houses when the wife comes home, than Mickey ever has running from the cops. But it don’t hurt to be nice to her every once in a fuckin’ while. If they’re going to survive the fucking apocalypse might not hurt to get along. 

“You gonna steal a fuckin’ tank Gallagher?”

“No,” he’s walking down the row of Army vehicles like he owns them all. And fuck, maybe he does now. Maybe they all do. Maybe no one owns anything anymore and Mickey’s childhood will finally pay off, “I’m going to steal an Oshkosh M-ATV. It’s mine resistant, ambush protected. Tailored to a five person crew, night vision. And it’s,” he stops suddenly, checking his watch.

“The time, the fuck does the time have to do with anything right now?”

Index finger in the space between them, the wait signal. Mickey fuckin’ hates that shit. He’d bite the tip of that finger off right here right now if that damn thing wasn’t so good and finding that spot up his ass, and rubbing in the exact way that Mickey craves like all the fucking time and…

Not a good time to think about fucking. 

An alarm sounds in the building, a bunch of doors automatically open to the garage facility and Ian takes off on his long fucking legs into the place. There’s no one fuckin’ here. Whoever the fuck he’s runnin’ from, Mickey ain’t sure. But Mickey is, sure as shit, not runnin’. 

He shrugs over at Mandy, briefly considers just stealing Ian’s pack and hot-wiring a Hum-Vee. Can’t be much different than a car. But then the damn ginger is walking back out calm as can be as the alarm thing sounds again and the open doors close themselves. And there are things in this world that Mickey is fine with, but there are things like doors that open and close themselves that he’ll always be weirded the fuck out by. It’s like when you’re sittin’ on the shitter with those automatic flush things and the fuckin’ thing flushes before you’re done shittin. That shit ain’t cool.

“That one,” tilting his head to a small ass vehicle for a whole fucking parking lot full of awesome shit and this is the one he chooses?

“The fuck?” 

“Got the armor of the six to eight wheelers, but it’s compact for urban fighting. Just get in, fucking thing is as comfortable as a damn grocery-getter. We don’t need a tank, we just need to survive the road trip, right?”

“Well, yeah, but runnin’ over some shit on the way would be way more fuckin’ fun than just drivin’ down the damn road in whatever the fuck this shit is.”

“Trust me. The mechanics of it are much more mainstream than any of the bigger vehicles here, so if anything goes wrong it’s easier to fix and steal the right parts for. Six speed automatic, so any of us can drive it. Anti-lock brakes, traction control and…” his face splits into a wide ridiculous smile, “air conditioning.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s get to the guns on board this thing,” rubbing his hands together and practically licking his lips at the thought of how much fire power they could be rolling down the road with.

“Roof mounted turret, machine gun can be fired from the turret or remotely,” he pulls the door open and cocks his head for them both to get in, “M 240, MK 19, and you’ll love this - anti-tank wire-guided missile system. You know, just in case the zombies are driving tanks.”

“Fuck Gallagher, I’ve never been so glad to have your ginger ass around.”

Goddamn smug smile on his dopey face, makes Mickey want to crash into his lips but he ain’t about to do that shit in front of Mandy. Even if she does know about them, PDA just ain’t Mickey’s thing.

————

“Holy fuck, that’s like a whole city worth of cars,” Mandy sighs from the passenger side up front.

“Yah, no shit, I told you the roads would be fuckin’ packed if we didn’t get the fuck out…”

“Roads?!” Ian turns his head from the driver’s side, “where we’re going, we don’t need roads.”

“Yeah, okay Doc Brown, fuck. Back to the fuckin’ Future,” he snorts, “you could at least be quoting post-apocalyptic shit or somethin’.”

“This is the way the fuckin’ world ends! Look at this fuckin’ shit we’re in, man! Not with a bang, but with a whimper.”

“That’s a fuckin’ war movie shithead.”

“Yeah, but it’s a good one,” he’s laughing when he jerks the wheel to steer off the road. 

“Coulda warned me, asshole,” Mandy punches his arm, her beer spilled all over her lap.

“Told you we didn’t need roads,” he smirks and Mickey can’t help but to laugh. This is going to be interesting to say the least.


	2. Starvin' And Suffocatin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road trip begins.
> 
> Kickin' off with a bang ;) 
> 
> As in, this chapter contains sexual content. And I don't see the point in tagging the shit that's tagged under the umbrella of the show and the relationship.

Starvin’ And Suffocatin’

 

It’s dark. Like dark. Darker than Chicago ever gets. Darker than Mickey has ever seen. There’s trees and there’s the sound of a river rushing by somewhere near. The wind is still fucking stiflingly hot. There’s birds and some weird little rodent things with orangey brownish bodies and black stripes down their backs and they keep scampering around on the branches and they sound little like rats but it’s on tree bark instead of inside walls and it’s fuckin’ weird. 

The stars are like fucking, fuck, the stars are even brighter than looking into Ian’s eyes. And that’s pretty fuckin’ bright. Fuck. He turns his head, knowing those damn eyes are on him. He ain’t stupid, that little fucker is always staring at him when he thinks Mickey isn’t paying attention. But he’s always paying attention. Mickey learned at a young age to always be aware. Aware of who’s next to you and behind you and in front of you and fuckin’ everywhere. Just everywhere. Even when he’s sleeping, Mickey is aware. 

“Fuck you lookin’ at?”

His smile doesn’t fade, but Mickey’s eyebrows scared off his gaze anyway. Hand tucked behind his head, watching the stars above them, “you, um, you think leaving was the right choice?”

“Fuck if I know. Ain’t like the world’s ended before in my fuckin’ lifetime.”

Stupid fucking smile, if he wasn't so goddamn close to him, he wouldn't be able to see him at all, and now his damn eyes are on Mickey again, “yeah. So, um…”

“We gonna make small talk all fuckin’ night or you gonna get on me?”

Mandy’s fucking passed out. As far as Mickey can tell it’s just the two of them and a bunch of tree rats. And some weird fuckin’ bird that must be an owl. Gotta be an owl. There’s probably fuckin’ bears and deer and shit too, but being eaten by a bear might be better than whatever this giant rock thing is that the universe is hurling at the planet as they lay here watching stars like they got fuckall to worry about.

‘Course that’s all it takes for the dipshit to be going for his belt. Mickey goes for his at the same time, but the dumb fucker grabs his hand and stops him. 

“The fuck?”

“Hear me out. So we left the city for a higher chance of survival for something that’s basically unsurvivable.”

“No. You left the city because you didn’t want to get forced to fuck a chick after the world ended to repopulate the shitstained planet that’s left and it’s probably going to be inhospitable for life anyway. So that was your fuckin’ problem firecrotch. I…”

All of a sudden the fucker’s lips are against Mickey’s. His breath catches in his throat and his fists clench at his side. 

Gonna punch him? For what? ‘Cause he’s kissing you again? 

Fuck, he never should have kissed him the other day. Now the asshole thinks it’s like open season on fucking kissing or some shit. Fuck, now it’s not just his lips. It’s his tongue. And his damn tongue makes Mickey’s scalp feel all tight on his skull and it makes these weird fucking tingle things happen on his spine. And he’s not really okay with it. 

Like at all. But his head is against the ground and he can’t back out of it. So yeah, he shoves him, “fuck Gallagher, try’na suffocate me?” wiping the back of his hand across his lips. But it’s too late. His damn dick is interested and there’s no way to stop that damn thing from getting what it wants in the end. So it’s either let Ian have his stupid kisses so he’ll fuck him, or step out into the woods to jerk one. And Mickey ain’t afraid of the woods, but he is afraid of being alone in the woods. Maybe. Well, he’d never admit it. But maybe, maybe it’s like the bears or the darkness or the combination of both. Do eyes every truly adjust to this kind of darkness, or is it all just optical illusions and shifting shadows? And how long can someone stand in the woods alone in pure darkness before they lose their mind?

The moon ain’t even out, “where the fuck’s the moon?”

He’s leaned up on his side, his elbow in the grass, guess for the leverage for that damn kiss. But now he tips over again, flat on his back and scans the sky, “no idea. Thought it was supposed to be a crescent moon. But I don’t see it.”

“It’s probably behind a fucking tree,” Mandy groans from where Mickey thought she was sound asleep. 

‘Pparently he was wrong. Guess the cat’s all the way out of the bag now. Not that she didn’t know they were fucking, or something, or whatever she would have already figured out from the fact that Mickey was acting like a fuckin’ lovesick puppy when he didn’t think Ian was coming. And fuckever amount of time Ian and Mandy spend together braiding each other’s hair or painting each other’s nails or whatever they do. What do they do? Is Mandy even hanging out at Gallagher’s to hang out with Ian anymore? Or is it… “you aren’t fucking Lip?” his head snaps towards her in the darkness. Wherever she is in the darkness, “you fucking Lip?”

“Fuck’s it matter to you who I’m fucking? You’re fucking a Gallagher. Can’t call the kettle black Mick.”

“Yeah well there’s a big difference between this Gallagher and that one.”

“Oh, what’s that smart guy?”

“The size of the chip on their shoulders…”

He receives a punch to his arm for that comment but Ian at least has the decency to snicker, knowing it’s true but it’s still his brother, so he’ll still punch for him. 

“Not like it’s anything to worry about now. We’re all going to die in three weeks anyway. Even if he gave me an STD or knocked me up, it wouldn’t matter, would it?”

“Guess not. Just hoped you had better taste…”

Another connection to his shoulder. This one actually kind of hurts. Yeah, so fuck, kid’s probably gettin’ all emotional about leaving his siblings behind for certain death in their weird little sandbag fortress. Dumbasses anyway. Not like runnin’ from the city will do anything either. But maybe Mickey wanted to see something that wasn’t fuckin’ Southside Chicago before he died. He ain’t dumb enough to have a bucket list. That shit’s for people who have money and the fuckin’ luxury of dreams. Fuck that shit.

But he don’t want to die in the house that holds nothing but shit memories and shit future. He wants to see something other than fuckin’ cars and smog and shitbags and industry and fuckin’ cinderblock and steel bars. Maybe all they’ll end up doin’ is sittin’ on a damn mountain in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere watching it all explode in front of their damn faces, but at least he didn’t die in the same fuckin’ place he was born. And that’s just fuckin’ fine with Mickey. 

He nudges Ian with his elbow, he’s close enough that even in this heat he can still feel his damn body heat reaching out to scorch Mickey. Even in the darkness he can see him smile, “so, um, where are we going?”

“Porcupine Mountains,” he half grumbles it, looking down at his hands as he reaches for his smokes. He don’t fuckin’ feel like explaining the choice to either of them, but especially not Ian. And he already knows what’s comin’ next.

“Why, so why’d you choose that?”

He shrugs, sparking the lighter. He’s not even half a puff in before his stupid long fingers are reaching for the smoke. Slapping his hand away midair, “wait your fuckin’ turn,” but while he’s busy fending Ian off, her damn fingers wrestle the cig away, “Jesus Christ. Knew I should have left alone.”

“You’d be so fucking bored without us.”

“And lost already.”

“Fuck you,” lighting a second smoke. Dipshit’s hand is on Mickey’s lower back. Like no one can see it, so it makes it okay. Fuck him. Fuck, it feels kinda good, damn it. Only time they ever touch is when they’re fucking and even then Mickey tries to keep it to a fuckin’ minimum ‘cause that touching shit is queer and sappy and letting Ian touch him would mean he’d have to admit that he wants to be touched. Fuck that. But he feels himself leaning towards his hand. Whatever, world’s gonna end, might as well let the dumb fuck have what he wants. Or maybe what Mickey wants, he’s not even fucking sure anymore. 

Sure, when he takes a drag and hands the smoke over, his fingers brush Ian’s and his breath catches a little in his throat, so he clears it, he clears his throat and watches the orange tip in the black night and wonders if that’s how it would look when their heads are close together. Like maybe if he ever hugged him and buried his head in his shoulder or somethin’. Orange on black where their heads meet.  
That’s queer. But now he’s watching his lips in the glow of the cigarette and he’s craving the fuck out of them, craving his lips more than the smoke, which is a fucking lot. 

“Mandy, go wait in the truck.”

“What? Why? I’m your dog now?”

“Yeah. Go fuckin’ wait in the truck.”

“I don’t want to wait in the truck. I thought we were sleeping and then moving again in the morning.”

In a normal situation the drive wouldn’t be taking more than a day, but this ain’t a normal situation and they ain’t cruisin’ down the fuckin’ freeway in a damn sedan. Really, they could have just switched drivers and kept driving through the night, but there was the weird part of impatient Mickey that all of a sudden is getting patient ‘cause he might as well slow the fuck down and see the sights like he ain’t dyin’ in three weeks so truly living for three weeks without the weight of Terry and Chicago and his mother’s fucking ghost and all that shit, it might feel kind of like actual living instead of surviving. Fuck it.

“Well then fucking go to the other side of it and do yoga.”

“Yoga?”

“Fuckin’ sing Taylor Swift. Just get the fuck out of here,” his eyebrows are up but he’s not sure she can see it in the darkness. All he can see is the orange tip of the cig and he’s still wondering about the whole hair thing, not that he’d be able to see it even he did let Ian hug him. 

“Taylor Swift?”

“Just get the fuck out of here for ten minutes. Fuck.”

“Wait…” he can barely see the outline of her face, but knows her eyes are narrowed as she scans him over, “are you two…”

“You’re fuckin’ slower than a stint in juvie. Just get the fuck out of here.”

“Ten minutes? That’s all? The world is ending and you’re going to have a ten minute fuck, that’s it?”

“Fuck off Mandy. Just…”

“I’ll go do fuckin’ yoga Mick,” he can practically hear her eyes rolling. 

“Bitch,” mumbling towards her retreating shadow and seeing her finger fly in response. 

He can see the idiot’s big bright ass grin when he turns his head, grabbing the smoke out of his hand and cocking his head, “c’mere.”  
“Maybe it’ll take twenty minutes,” she’s still talking but he can barely hear her over the rushing in his ears when Ian’s lips make contact. Fuck him for this, but fuck, goddamn it feels good. It’s all warm and soft and slow and maybe feels sort of like someone who cares. Like actually cares, not just some fuck in a dugout or the fridge or the storage or fuckever they could go that no one would find them. And fuck, maybe twenty minutes wouldn’t kill. Maybe twenty minutes of just this tongue on tongue shit could make him come. No, that’s too queer, but seriously, his fuckin’ dick is already tryin’ it’s damndest to rip open his zipper. Big dumb shit must be havin’ the same problem, his hand drops from Mickey’s jaw where apparently he must be feeling the way his face moves or maybe he just needed to anchor himself to Mickey, who knows. But it drops and finds his damn zipper, finds it quick, tugs his dick out, just his stupid thumb sliding across the tip of it makes it twitch. 

“Fuck,” it’s all mumbled into Ian’s mouth and he’s not sure why his own hands aren’t moving yet. Like his damn kisses are paralyzing or somethin’. Fuck, maybe they are. Is that why people kiss? Like some fucking words they can’t really say so they us their tongues and lips for some other form of communication? No, that’s stupid, “fuck,” why’s it feel like the idiot is trying to tell him something then?

Nudging into him with his nose now when his lips leave, catching his breath for a minute, than diving back in. 

Jesus. Fuckin’ kid starving? Turning into some kind of zombie or some shit? Fuckin’ bath salts, right? The shit that made that guy in Florida or fuckwhere eat the other guy’s face? Was it like a cop or something? Who the fuck knows anymore. And why’s he fuckin’ care? All that shit’s going to be over in a few weeks anyway. Guess if Ian eats his face off now, he won’t know how it ends anyway. But that would probably fuckin’ hurt, “the fuck Gallagher?”

“What?” wiping his hand across his mouth when he pulls away and drops Mickey’s dick. He’s certain the fucker is flushed and he sounds all breathless.

“You tryin’ to eat me?”

“Suffocate you or eat you, am I just a bad kisser or something?”

“No, I, fuck, I don’t, you’re,” shit. Now the kid’s gonna have a damn complex for the rest of his short life, “no. Just slow the fuck down a second.”

“You’re telling me to slow down? You,” he snorts it, “you’re the most impatient fucker on this planet. Won’t let me kiss you or touch you, barely open you up before you’re telling me to just get on you.”

“Open me up, you sound so fucking queer man, like I…”

“You actually want it to be painful at first or what? Without anything, it wouldn’t fit, it’s not like a,” he clears his throat and trails off.

“A pussy?”

“Um, yeah, I guess. I don’t know, I’ve never… but they’re like made for…”

“We gonna have a fuckin’ sex ed chat here,” remembering his dick when it reminds him by sending a nice painful throb of wanting through his belly, “Jesus,” tucking the damn thing in, “what the fuck you even want Gallagher?”

“I don’t know, I…” he falls silent and Mickey is really wishing he could see his stupid face. 

Lighter’s in his pocket, he could just flick it and get a glimpse of whatever is all over that kid’s face. Might be a better choice than tryin’ to talk. Talking is for chicks. Fuck, maybe it’s for queers too. Fuck, maybe it’s for fuckin’ people. Fine, fuck. 

His hand falls to Ian’s thigh, giving it a tight squeeze, “look, this shit is weird, right? Like we know we’re gonna die young. We’re headed to the middle of fuckin’ nowhere, just the three of us, and we’re what? Hoping to survive just to die of starvation or dehydration or radiation or exhaustion or like fuckin’ check all four boxes, or what? Or we just takin’ a road trip to the end of the world here? I dunno, neither do you, neither does fuckin’ NASA or whatever. But, so if it’s true, and it sure in the fuck feels true, then we should probably try to experience, uh…” now his own voice falters and words drop out of his head. Ian’s hand covers his where it’s resting on his thigh and he can feel the taut muscles of his leg under his palm and the strange contrast to his bony fingers on the back of it, it’s kind of clammy but it’s fuckin’ hot out, so yeah, there’s gonna be sweat no matter where they touch, “so you want like, fuck, like you want to,” Jesus, fuck it ain’t that hard to say this shit, is it? 

Now he can feel those big puppy dog eyes on him through the shadows. Fucker chose Mickey to spend his last days with over his family, must mean somethin’, “so you want like fuckin’ boyfriend and girlfriend type shit here? Like you want hand holding and kissing and like, fuckin’ like… um, like fuckin…”

“I wanna eat your ass.”

Or that, he snickers, “you ain’t gonna say that once you get your face that close to it,” nudging him with his elbow. 

“So, um, you been with many guys?”

“No. Fucked girls. Fucked a guy in juvie but it wasn’t nothin’. Just,” his hands are starting to do the talking and he finds the smoke is still pinched between his fingers so he takes a drag.

“I fooled around with, um, a guy your age and then, well, Kash. But he’s not, I don’t know. It’s more for like, the benefits of fucking him, or something. It’s…”

“It’s fuckin’ child abuse is what it is.”

“Well, first of all, it’d be more like…”

“Don’t fuckin’ justify it man. He’s usin’ you for your dick and you’re sixteen. He’s a grown ass man.”

“Well, it’s consensual.”

“Yeah, well it’s fuckin’ sick. But fuckever, it’s over.”

“How’s it different than you? Using me for my dick?”

“Uh, ‘cause I ain’t some middle aged dude with a wife and kids. Fucking my employee and givin’ him shit ‘cause he’s poor but he lets me ride his dick. What do I get out of fuckin’ you? I get your dick, yeah. Sure, it ain’t a bad dick as dicks go,” this is all too fuckin’ weird when he realizes his sweaty hand is still laying on top of Mickey’s on his thigh. Shit, he wants to shrug it off and shake his hand out, but he doesn’t, “so sure, maybe you want to beat me with a tire iron and we fuck instead and now we just fuck whenever we’re around each other, but it ain’t like I’m usin’ you. Jesus, fuck, Ian, what do you want me to say? I actually like being around you or somethin’? ‘Cause right now, you gettin’ all needy for approval or some shit…”

“Affection.”

“Huh?”

“You brought up the dynamics of my relationship with Kash. I’m just saying…”

“You brought up the whole fucking thing, man, don’t pin this shit on me. I ain’t your girlfriend, you want to gossip and fuckin’ work out your insecurities go get Mandy. I,” his hand shakes out of Ian’s sweaty grip and rises to his eyes at the same time the other one brings the smoke to his lips. Blowing the cloud towards the twinkling lights in the sky, “fuck. Okay, so you fuckin’ think I’m just chasin’ you around for your dick? That shit could get me killed if Terry found out. Like fucking seriously killed. And you think it’s all because of your dick? Fuck you.”

“So you’re saying,” stupid fucking hand landing on Mickey’s lower back, “you like me?”

“Fuck you with that shit,” grumbling, stubbing the smoke out in the grass beside him, flicking the butt into the woods.

“You’re saying if your dad caught us together, you’d get killed. So you’re saying you’d die for me?”

“The fuck you think this is, some kinda fuckin’ romance movie or some shit?”

He sighs out a laugh, “no. Fine. I’ll say it first. I love you.”

This weird fucking thing happens inside Mickey’s body. Like a damn snake is slithering in his intestines or something and his feels his face flush with a surge of adrenaline. That’s a fuckin’ weird ass thing to get an adrenaline rush over. What the fuck? S’pose it must be true if there’s a physical reaction to it. Fuck, “yeah, yeah fuckever firecrotch. I love you too, but if the world doesn’t end, you better never tell a fuckin’ soul I said that queer ass shit.”

“Okay Mick,” his hand slides across his back and a goddamn shiver rips up his spine, fingers grasping his hip when his face dips into the side of his neck, “and I won’t tell a soul you did the queer ass shit you’re about to do either.”

He opens his mouth to snort out a response, but the lanky fuck is too quick. Gripping his body to flip him over, “fuck, Gallagher,” that’s kinda sexy. Bein’ manhandled like that. Okay, alright, kid’s got some promise, yanking his pants down like that and pulling up on his hips ‘till he’s, well, he’s pretty much just on his hands and knees in the damn grass and, “holy fuck,” fucker’s tongue is trailing the length of his spine as he pushes his shirt out of the way and his hands are sliding down Mickey’s arms as his face, uh, well, probably disappears between Mickey’s asscheeks. And, “fuck,” yeah it feels pretty fuckin’ good. He ain’t gonna lie. Fucker’s got a face full of ass and he’s going to town. 

Okay, it’s kind of fucking weird. But Ian’s gettin’ all kinds of hot and bothered over it, so fine, that’s fine. It’s still fuckin’ weird. But his damn fingers are gripping pulses into Mickey’s on the grass now and Mickey’s stupid body is arching back into him like he can’t get enough. Ian’s just pushing further and getting more determined about it. And fuck, it better not be bearing down on twenty minutes, ‘cause if Mandy comes back to this shit…

“Fuck,” his forehead meets the back of Ian’s left hand where it’s grasping his own and now his right hand releases and, “use lube, bitch,” when the first finger goes in dry. 

He snorts out a laugh right into Mickey’s ass and it fucking tickles and makes him lurch forward and away from the idiot. Flat on his belly in the grass and laughing at his own idiocy. But it just makes Ian laugh that much harder and his stupid theatrical laugh makes Mickey laugh harder. Fuckin’ bunch of idiots is what they are. He can feel Ian sliding over him and his laugh is being muffled into his shoulder blades when his forehead leans against the back of Mickey’s neck. And this is it, this is how he would know what their hair looks like, if it is the orange tip of a smoke on the black blanket of sky. But how the fuck’s he s’posed to see that?

“Quit laughing,” his sigh rising goosebumps on Mickey’s flesh.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

“Every time you laugh your ass clamps down on my finger and I’m going to jizz in my damn pants in like two seconds.”

“Okay, okay, just…” it chokes right the fuck off when he breathes out against Mickey’s ear and his left hand disappears, hopefully for some damn lube. Nope, fingers gripping Mickey’s face while his lips wipe across his shoulder, turning until the side of his head is resting in the grass and Ian’s lips press over his. So technical aspects aside, like his lips were just on Mickey’s ass and now they’re on his lips, so that shit aside, this shit is kind of, as queer as it is, it’s good. It’s really fucking good. The one finger that’s still in his ass is working at a slow, lazy, we got all the time in the world kind of pace and Ian’s chest is warm against his back and he doesn’t mind the sweat. He never did. He doesn’t mind that it smells like dirt and grass and things he’s never smelled before in his life, like forest and fresh air and there’s probably deer shit somewhere under them or next to them and those damn tree-rat things are stills scampering around making all kinds of fuckin’ noise. 

Damn, affection ain’t the worst thing on the planet. It’s just, it’s somethin’ Mickey hasn’t felt in a long fuckin’ time. If ever. So seeking it from some kid he’s not even supposed to be attracted to or want or love or fuckever all this is, it’s still weird, it’s still, “fuck,” muffled in Ian’s mouth again as his second finger works in, at least this time there’s lube, “hold on, just a,” his fingers draw back and his body stiffens against Mickey’s back.

“Too much or…”

“No, fuckface,” deep breath, “no,” maybe. Maybe it’s too much affection. Is that a thing? Is it possible to be too gentle? Or too sweet? That’s a thing, he’s too fuckin’ sweet. Doin’ this all rushed and gettin’ it over with, then it’s just fucking, it’s just getting to orgasm and fuckin’ off. But, “fuck,” does he want this? Does he want to have some kind of meaningful end of the world sex with like kisses and…  
He’s leaning away and Mickey wants to tell him not to, as soon as his skin isn’t against Mickey’s he wants it back. But he wants it all, he wants all the skin against all the skin. Is that even okay to want that shit? Fuck. How does he even say something that fuckin’ gay?

No, he’s not going to. That’s fuckin’… fucker is turning him again, rolling him over to his back and tugging his shirt over his head. His left hand is behind Mickey’s head when he leans into him, like he’s some kind of barrier between Mickey and the dirt, like he’s pillowing his landing or some shit. Fuck. Mickey’s spent, he’s sold, he’s balled and chained up for the rest of his fucking short ass life if this fucker fucks him like this. 

Shit, fuck, he’s going to. He’s going to. His lips are against Mickey’s and he’s being insanely and unnecessarily gentle pressing his dick into Mickey’s ass, and then his hand cups Mickey’s asscheek and puts these weird little tiny pulses of pressure against it as he angles himself all the way to the base. And fuck if Mickey’s heart isn’t beating too fucking fast for this shit and his breath isn’t lodged in the back of his throat. 

“You gotta speed it up firecrotch,” it’s all breathy and barely above a whisper and not at all intimidating like he wanted it to be.

“Why?”

“‘Cause it’s fuckin’, too…”

“Intense?”

Jesus Christ, he wishes he could see the idiot’s face a little better. Like he could see all the damn twinkles on his irises, what he can see is pretty fucking incredible, “no.”

“Yeah it is,” nudging his nose against Mickey’s, “I like it.”

"Fuck you is what you like."

“Yeah? We’ll try that too before the world ends,” damn it. His eyebrow is probably all quirked up and that dopey way and his smile is probably all smug like he thinks he knows he’s got Mickey turnin’ into putty in his fuckin’ big ass hand. Fuckin’ giant fuckin’ hand, he’s like a damn puppy with paws too big for it’s body. Damn, he won’t get a chance to turn into a man. He’d probably look like a damn model or somethin’. 

“It’s ‘cause I wanted to take you there,” he blurts it and he’s not sure why, but now it’s out.

“Huh?”

“To the Porcupines. I wanted to take you there,” his hand is on the back of Ian’s head and he’s only just now realizing that it’s fingering it’s way through his hair, “fuck. I was fuckin’ bored a few weeks ago and was lookin’ at brochures down at the stupid gas station while Iggy was fillin’ up the Buick on our last run to Detroit. I don’t know, didn’t feel like stealin’ a Snickers, so I was lookin’ at that shit instead. Saw the one for the Porcupines and I thought maybe it’d be cheap enough, like after that run I could probably afford gas and after that it’d just be fuckever.”

“It’d be a walk in the woods and an awesome view of the stars and we could spread a blanket out and look for shooting stars and sleep in the open air at night and not worry about who was around and all that shit?”

Fucker’s probably all lit up like the fuckin’ fourth of July. Mickey can feel a damn blush covering his entire fucking face, “no, it’d be…”  
He dives into Mickey’s lips hard enough that he’s actually kind of glad for that hand behind his head. Probably be buried in fuckin’ dirt if it wasn’t there. He’s smilin’ against Ian’s lips before his tongue pries them open and charges right on in like he owns the joint.

Fucker. Gotta experience some kind of life affirming sex before he dies or something. Fuck him. Guess he can. Mickey won’t stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly forgot that I wrote this chapter already. I still have no real plan for this piece, but since this one is written and I don't feel like doing anything more than sitting on my deck right now listening to music, I might as well post this chapter. 
> 
> Maybe a few giggles will be gotten at least :)
> 
> Make the two of them have a sex/relationship chat somewhere in the midst of their teen years... pure entertainment.


	3. The Zoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What else are three Southside kids going to do when the world is ending?

The Zoo

 

He’s not actually certain who is shaking harder. But he’s certain they’re both shaking. Not that Mickey would admit it, and if he asked, Ian would say it was from holding himself up or something. But this shit has never happened before. 

As the last pulse of orgasm rips through his body from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, he lays his face in Mickey’s neck. They’re sweaty, and it’s fucking stiflingly hot even at night. The forest around them is still alive, like all the animals can’t figure out what to do with the upcoming end of the world either. Work through the night on shelter? Gather and store as much food as possible? Batten down the hatches and hope to withstand? 

Or, get moving down the damn road and just watch it all end? When Mickey told him his plan, when he told him he should come along, he thought he was fucking crazy. But what has Mickey ever done that wasn’t crazy? Guy’s pretty much a lunatic with the heart of a lion. Ian can see right through his armor when they’re alone together, he knows what’s inside of Mickey and he knows it’s something so much sweeter and softer than his outside. 

He runs his nose along Mickey’s collarbone and feels his fingertips start to relax from where they’ve pressed dents into his skull. If Ian knew that was the way Mickey kissed, he would have dared him a year ago to kiss him. It is the most infuckingtense thing Ian has ever felt, every fucking time. 

So he told him last week, he’d be packing up some supplies, talking to his siblings, and heading for the middle of nowhere in the Upper Peninsula. He’d stand on a rocky ledge and watch the fucking world fall down and explode around them. The asteroid is supposed to hit somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere. Most likely right smack in the middle of the States. So when it happens, it’ll be quick. Science is science and Ian’s not much of one to argue with science, neither is Mickey. But like he said, no one’s seen the end of the world yet, so there’s no true way of knowing what it looks like ’til it happens. 

Either way, he was hell bent on doing it from the ledge of a cliff in the middle of fucking nowhere and he hoped to see some shit along the way. While half this continent was boarding flights to the other side of the world in hopes of living a few more days or maybe hiding in underground fortresses with strangers who have been stockpiling food and supplies and seeds for growing their own food and feeding the world’s survivors when it’s all over in like a fucking decade or two and they leave their underground fortress. But fuck that. 

The plane ticket prices skyrocketed. Why? Who the fuck knows? Because they could. Or because it isn’t the strongest will survive in this world. It’s only the richest. But what would survival even be? Maybe it would just be a prolonged death. 

Fuck. It’s too much is what it is. Lip seemed convinced the asteroid’s projected path was off by just a fraction, but enough of a fraction that if the impact was in the Pacific ocean, there was a definite chance the reverberations would be felt in Chicago, but not to the point of total destruction as far as hiding underfuckingground for years was concerned. 

Truthfully, Ian might be a dick for ditching the family to fend without him. He’s got the ROTC knowledge and probably stands the best chance if they did survive the impact, to have the hand to hand resources and weapon knowledge to pass along to the others in case it came to fighting other survivors for later survival. Yes, he’s probably a shithead if they survive the universe shaking Earth off it’s back just to be murdered by someone raiding their supplies. But, with having to steal and scrounge supplies, will they really be able to get enough for a decade in the next three weeks? Unlikely. 

Who knows?

What Ian does know is that he loves Mickey Milkovich and if loving him sends him to certain death watching an asteroid’s impact, well then so be it. As long as they’re together. 

That asshole just told him he loves him back. He sighs out a breath that shakes and Mickey’s hand that he didn’t realize was burning a brand into his asscheek until just now when it released, moves up his back, lands on his shoulder blade and he wonders, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” he’s quick to answer and he wishes he could see what his breath did to Mickey’s overheated flesh as it traveled across his collarbone.

“Kay,” he sounds like he doesn’t believe him, and his hand is so fucking soft against his back and he starts to wonder, maybe he’s not okay.

“I don’t know,” what he doesn’t have to wonder, is how fucking insanely comfortable it is to lay over Mickey like a damn blanket. Even in this heat, “you?”

“Fuck if I know. How the fuck could we know? But, uh, you’re gonna have to shift some fuckin’ weight off me, man. There’s a fuckin’ rock diggin’ into my asscheek.”

“So the sex was good enough that you didn’t even notice a rock digging into your ass?”

“Fuck,” but he doesn’t deny it.

“Told you you’d like it,” he lifts his head and presses gently into those pillow soft lips before he can respond. Lingering here, right here, is exactly where he wants to stay for the next three damn weeks. 

————

When he wakes up with his arms around Mickey and his face buried in his neck, he promises himself he made the right choice. And if they live, if they end up making it by some odd chance, he’ll head back to Chicago when the dust settles, if it settles, he’ll head back for his siblings then. They had a choice. He had a choice. He said his goodbyes, maybe they all pretended they’d see each other soon. Either way, he’s here. And he’s buried in a scent that he could easily live his remaining life in.

————

“So why the rush to get there?”

“Huh?”

“Why the rush to get to the final destination when we have three weeks between now and then? We could probably drive around and see some cool shit for a week or so and then head North.”

“Yeah, ’til we run out of gas and no one’s got gas ‘cause no one’s workin’ anymore,” he reaches across the vehicle and flicks the side of Ian’s head.

“Oh. What other shit did you look at? What else is in the area?”

“Fuck if I know. Trees and rocks and all sorts of fuckin’ wildlife as far as I can tell. Lake Superior,” he shrugs.

“Why did you choose this place?” Mandy wonders from the back where she’s biting her thumbnail. 

He shrugs, he’ll never tell a soul, and Ian thinks it’s adorable. He can feel himself smiling over at Mickey, watching as a tiny pink blush rises and he turns his head towards the window, chewing on his bottom lip before his thumb rises. Fuck, he wants to feel those lips, every second of every day. 

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” the growl is low and the bite is just a nip, but it’s enough to make Ian watch the road, it’s not enough to wipe the smile off his face. 

“Speaking of gas, wouldn’t hurt to top it off.”

“Yeah, at like every single fuckin’ place between here and there.”

“Where are we?”

“Still in Wisconsin.”

“Fuck Wisconsin. Fuckin’ cows and paper mills.”

“You want to stop at the zoo and see how the animals in cages are dealing with this shit?”

“Dealin’ with this shit? Fuck’s that mean?”

“Well, the animals last night,” he clears his throat, wondering if he’s fucking crazy, “they just kept going all night. Like they can feel the change in the atmosphere or something too.”

“Like the tree rats got some fuckin’ radar for a giant asteroid?”

Mandy’s fist appears in Ian’s peripheral and contacts Mick’s shoulder, “don’t be a dick. You think the zoo animals are just going to be left in the cages for certain death?”

“I don’t know what else they’d do with them.”

“Maybe we should go set them loose,” now his head turns back towards Ian, a smirk on his gorgeous face. 

“You serious?”

“Okay, so either no one ever lived in this godforsaken state, or the place is fuckin’ abandoned. You think the fuckin’ zoo workers are just hangin’ out with the animals and waitin’ around?”

It’s a drastic change from the hectic panic of the city. Out in the cornfields and cow pastures, there’s no sign of life. Even from the freeway. The occasional car on the opposite side, headed South. 

“I wonder how long it’ll take before every single structure is looted.”

“Fuck if I know,” he’s gnawing on his lip again, eyebrow rising, “fine, let’s go to the fuckin’ zoo.”

————

“Think someone beat us to the punch.”

“Uh yeah,” all the enclosures are empty. The gift shop is a wreck, everything either gone or torn to shreds, “you think since they were caged and don’t know how to survive in the wild, you think they’re all still lingering around the zoo?”

“I’m getting back in the truck,” Mandy announces, “I don’t want to come face to face with a hungry lion.”

“Getting ripped to shreds by a lion or getting blasted to smithereens by space? Fuck’s the difference?”

“Pain level,” her hands are on her hips.

“Yeah but this place got a zip-line. Maybe a fuckin’ bear’ll eat ya at the end of it, but you don’t know ’til you try.”

Her eyes are darting back and forth from her brother to Ian, wondering which one will break first but it actually doesn’t sound like a stupid idea. He’s right, dead either way, “fuck it,” Ian shrugs, “I’m in.”

“No. Fuck you, you serious?” her eyes narrow, "I’d expect stupid from him, but you?”

“You ever go zip-lining before?”

“What do you think?”

“We’ve been too fucking broke and too fucking beat all our fuckin’ lives to be able to enjoy living. Fuck it,” Mickey smirks, turning on his heal and stalking off towards the area marked by the map as the Adventure Park.

“He’s got a point,” sliding his arm over her bony shoulders, “come on, could be fun.”

————

“Well fuck me, this ain’t at all fuckin’ scary,” a blind deaf idiot could see he’s bluffing.

“I’m surprised the harnesses are still here.”

“What the fuck would someone want with this ball squisher?” 

He shrugs, “parasailing, now that would be cool.”

“You drive a boat?”

“No way, but it can’t be that hard.”

“Yeah, well let’s live through this shit first and then do that ropes course.”

“I can’t believe I’m listening to you idiots. I should have followed Iggy,” her knuckles are white where she’s got her fingers wrapped around the strap of Mickey’s harness.

“You couldn’t kill someone.”

“If I had to.”

“Yah, well you don’t have to kill to get to the top of…” his hand spreads out in the space in front of them where there’s green trees, a pond and a field, “wherever the fuck we are,” he grins at Ian. 

There are two ropes next to each other, but it looks like Mandy is about to head right down with Mickey. She’s gripping his harness like it’s her lifeline. Sometimes it’s easy to forget they’re siblings, but in this exact moment it is crystal clear that he’s her big brother and she’s looking for his protection. 

“Alright bitch,” she’ll get the protection but not the coddling, “piggyback. And don’t fuckin’ choke me out.”

“Wait. Do you actually think the animals are just hanging around here?” her eyes are wide with fear, she looks as childlike as Ian has ever seen her look.

He lies, “no. They’d probably have taken off as soon as someone opened the pens.”

“Or maybe Noah built a fuckin’ ark. We goin’ or not? Get your fuckin’ hooks in, feels like you’re gonna hit bottom as soon as I start slidin’. Got that stupid hair outta the way? Gets caught in one of these,” he tilts his face back to look at the rigging, “whatever the fuck this is, fuckin’ scalp ya. And I ain’t dealin’ with that shit. I’ll leave you for cat bait.”

“Wow Mick, that’s sibling love at it’s finest,” Ian laughs. When Mandy rolls her eyes his way, he gives her a reassuring nod, just like he’d do if Debbie was here. Fuck, he probably should have taken Debbie and Carl with him. They’d love this shit. They didn’t really have a choice in the matter of going or staying, and now Ian is wishing he’d asked them.

He shakes it off when he watches Mickey launch them off the platform, first she shrieks then they both laugh. Ian’s not sure he’s ever heard them both laugh. Certainly not in this childish carefree way. They’re zip-lining in an empty zoo with minimal safety equipment and they’re doubled up, gripping each other but not giving a flying fuck about the consequences. 

“Well, fuck,” he sighs and sends himself after them. Whatever noise came out of his mouth wasn’t a girly shriek but it was something he’s never heard himself do before. 

————

At the bottom they’re both grinning, real, unrestrained, gorgeous grins and Ian feels himself doing the same thing. Shit, a couple of Southside teens that never got a chance to be kids, “we should find a place to swim next.”

Their smiles fade and they turn to scan each other’s faces for a moment, before Mickey shrugs and she sighs, “we don’t know how.”

“What?!”

“When the fuck were we gonna learn shit like that?”

“Somewhere between beltings and beatings and drug runs,” Mandy shrugs, shooting him an elbow, “fuck it.”

He’s watching her with a scowl on his gorgeous face and Ian wants to cover those lips with his, but he’ll wait, he has to. If he kissed Mickey in front of his sister, he’d end up with nothing less than a black eye. 

“Like a pool?”

“Or a river or a lake,” he shrugs, “sure there’s plenty of those around here.”

He’s chewing pretty vigorously on his lower lip, Ian’s not sure how there aren’t just permanent teeth marks in his flesh, “fuck it, but after this fuckin’ ropes course. I wanna see if Army over here can pull his weight,” the eyebrows are up in a dare and the smirk is rising to cover the remaining insecurity that’s starting to fade. 

“Fucking race you there then,” he doesn’t give him a chance to respond, just takes off, all the while knowing they’re both hot on his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I still am not entirely sure where I'm going with this one, but I might as well let them have a little carefree fun in the face of certain death ;) Or is it certain death? Guess we won't know 'til it happens! 
> 
> Imagining taking these three out of the constraints of their lives at this point, potential for some fun. Might as well. I feel like I always have a hard time writing Mandy but I always just write her anyway. Because I like her. Someday I want to dive into her darkness, but I just don't have the balls yet.
> 
> I obsess over Mickey learning to swim. It's just a thing I can't get over I guess.


	4. Dying Man's Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chance for some firsts along the way...

Dying Man’s Wish

 

“Fuck, holy fuck that’s cold,” he’s only as far as his knees in the river, and he has no desire to go further, “that straight off a fuckin’ glacier or some shit? Fuck.”

“There’s no glaciers in the Midwest.”

“I know that fuckface. Why the fuck’s it so cold then?”

“Quit being a pussy,” Mandy is already waist deep, palms flat on the river’s rushing surface, “it’s not that bad.”

“How the fuck we s’posed to learn to swim in water that’s moving?”

Ian’s broad shoulders shrug, reflecting sun off his pale alien skin nearly blinding Mickey. But his damn grin is the thing that truly blinds him and he feels his body moving towards the idiot without him telling it to, “guess you just learn or drown.”

“Helpful.”

“Step one: get in the water.”

“Yeah, well the tip of my thermometer just touched the water and it’s tellin’ me there ain’t no way the rest of me is gettin’ in there.”

He can practically feel Mandy’s eyes roll and Ian’s smile gets all smug, right before the stupid fucker lunges for him, dragging Mickey further out into the river. At least there ain’t much of a current, kind of fuckin’ freaky to be in water that could pull him under or down river or both. Fuck him for feelin’ like he’s safe in Ian’s stupid grasp. Fuckever, they’re mostly just wrestling and he could put his feet back down on the bottom whenever the fuck he wanted. 

The wrestling only stops when Mickey gets a snout full of water and ends up choking his face off. Ian thumping on his back, like that’ll help, hanging onto his arm with his free hand, “fuck, that stings,” letting a string of snotty water drip into the river. 

“Yeah, closing your mouth and blocking your nose when you put your face under is recommended.”

Middle finger stepping up for him.

Fuckin’ smile. Fuck, why’s Mandy gotta be here? Every time that fucker smiles, Mickey just wants to wipe that stupid fuckin’ expression off his face with a sloppy ass kiss. Fuck him. He reaches out real quick to shove him. When the fucker’s fallin’ backwards with a surprised brow, Mickey takes off runnin’. Dipshit ain’t gonna catch him on land. He knows that much. 

“Ouch, fuck, ow,” it’s fuckin’ rocky underfoot. Fuck. That was a dumb fuckin’ plan too. ‘Pparently preparin’ for the end of the world should have involved some barefoot preparation too. Like that stupid Naked and Afraid show. How those fuckers walk around barefoot for a few weeks leading up to. Not like Mickey watched that shit when he heard the world was ending. Like fuckin’ livin’ off the land or some shit would be helpful when the land can’t be lived off. Runnin’ around naked in the damn woods, which, well, he basically is right now. Boxers that are clinging to his legs, maybe naked would be more comfortable. 

He can hear Ian crashing through the greenery behind him and his damn dopey laugh bouncing off the trees and shit. Alright, the chase is getting old. He steps behind a tree and waits. Clotheslining his big ginger ass on his way by. 

He hits the ground panting and gasping. Fuckever, he didn’t knock the wind out of him. Dummy opens his mouth, no doubt to bitch him out for dropping him like a ton of fuckin’ orange and white-ass bricks. But Mickey ain’t stupid, he knows how to shut him the fuck up. In short order.

Sit on him and start kissin’ him. It’s fuckin’ simple. Lips, his damn lips are so soft. It’s like something Mickey could linger on forever. The feel of ‘em just makes his entire damn body feel all fuckin’ Jello. Like the orange kind. Not the green kind. Fuck green Jello. That shit’s nasty. 

He can feel the heat of Ian’s hands on his back. And it don’t take long for his dick to be hard as fuck between them. He ain’t got lube. He don’t feel like just spittin’ on it. Yeah, so maybe that wasn’t thought through very well either. Fuck it. Suck that thing. Fuck later. Or something. He ain’t about to admit that what they did last night is somethin’ he wants to do again. All that gentle queer shit with all the eye contact through the darkness and shit. And he sure as shit ain’t about to admit that just the thought of it is making his stupid skin feel tight and tingly and chilled and overheated and all that shit. 

Those stupid fuckin’ tree rats are makin’ all kinds of racket. Over the blood rushing in his ears he can hear the wind rattling the leaves above them. Like a fuckin’ crow or some shit flying overhead cawing. Chirping. There is fucking chirping everyfuckingwhere. Damn forest never shuts the fuck up, does it?

His hands have stalled on Ian’s chest. Like he has no fucking clue how to take his boxers off or something. Stupid heart lodged in his chest and it’s just a damn dick. Ain’t rocket science. Ain’t launching a fucking rocket at an asteroid like maybe NASA is trying to do by now. Or something, don’t seem like it’d work. Like ever, but fuck knows what kind of top secret government bullshit is happening all over the world to try to stop this shit. 

Either way, it ain’t a rocket it’s just a dick. Can’t be anymore complicated than fuckin’. And it ain’t like he’s going to admit that he’s a queer who’s never sucked a dick before. Been fucked five ways from Sunday but never sucked a dick. That seems fuckin’ logical.   
Fuckever. He won’t say, he’ll just do it and he’ll get a damn earful from gingerfuck if he does it wrong. 

“Mick?”

“Fuck.”

He’s starin’ at him like he’s grown a second head or something. Or is it a third head when it’s a dude? Is it really only a second head when it’s got a brain? Yeah right, like Mickey’s ever been good at thinking with his upstairs brain anyway. Fuckin’ dangly ass brain that takes up space behind his dick, that’s the one he thinks with. 

“You, uh,” his hands are rubbing up and down Mickey’s spine like he’s trying to seal in some warmth on top of the heat that’s already stifling, “froze up.”

“Huh?”

Goddamn smile gets all dopey as fuck, “fall asleep with your eyes open or what?”

“What?”

“You stopped moving. Stopped kissing me. Just kind of, sitting on my dick staring at me.”

“Fuck you firecrotch, I did not.”

“Yeah you did. And yeah, that’s what I want, but,” he nudges Mickey’s nose with his own and smiles kind of shyly, “with lube.”

“Well yeah. Fuck,” he sits up, most of his weight on his knees beside Ian’s pelvis. Lookin’ down at him while he’s laying in the grass starin’ up at Mickey. One arm bends, sliding a hand behind his head and the other lands on Mickey’s chest. Like he’s tryin’ to make sure his heart is still beating or something. Fingers spread wide, he’s staring at his skin and smiling.

Green eyes reflecting the sun that’s behind Mickey, his hair lookin’ like a damn smoldering fire against the green grass he’s lying on. He’s watching his hand while it’s sliding across Mickey’s chest, damp with river water and sweat, lingering over his nipple before his fingers trail down the center of him and a fuckin’ stupid shiver races up Mickey’s spine forcing his back to straighten. And a smug smile rises on that ginger face, fingers dropping to his boxers, over the waistband, feeling the length of his dick through the damp fabric. Sliding underneath and tracing the same path over his erection with bare skin now. 

“Fuck,” his eyes plaster themselves shut just as Ian’s flicker up to his face.

Stroking lazily but every single tiny movement is chasing goosebumps up Mickeys surface. Even in this damn heat. It’s just a hand on his dick, no different than his own hand on his dick, “Mickey?”

“What?” a whispered sigh.

“Turn around.”

His eyes startle open and he jerks his head to the side, searching the trees and the dead leaves and the green grass and the shadows playing tricks with the sunshine, “bear?”

“No,” he snickers now, and he’s sitting up, bringing his knees in close to Mickey’s back, arms wrapping around his chest, “I mean turn around like 69.”

“Huh?” he can feel his face asking without voicing, ‘the fuck you talkin’ about’.

Dope grins even wider, “I’ve never done it.”

“What?”

His hands slide down Mickey’s back and clamp down on his hips, “like you suck my dick while I suck yours.”

“I know what 69 is firecrotch.”

“Okay, then turn around,” falling back down to his back in the grass.

Jesus Christ those stupid fucking eyes with the backdrop of the grass, it’s like fucking mesmerizing or some shit.

“Please,” he smiles, “dying man’s wish.”

“Oh fuck you.”

“Yeah, that too,” he shrugs, “later.”

His fingers rise to grind into his eyes. Guess if Ian’s got a mouthful of cock too, it ain’t like he can complain if Mickey ain’t doin’ it right. Can’t be that fucking hard to figure out. Been done to him before. Angie Zago’s great at suckin’ dick. He never much liked anything else about her, but her dick suckin’, yeah. He could emulate that shit. She’s dumb as a box of fuckin’ rocks and she figured it out. Or just copy what Ian’s doin’ while he’s doin’ it. 

Good fuck, it’s just fuckin’ Ian. Ain’t like he’s impressin’ his fuckin’ parole officer or some shit. Kissin’ some fuckin’ judge’s ass or something. Just Gallagher.

“Fuck, fine,” he finally huffs out after a good long moment of gnawing on his lower lip. 

Ian bucks him off in short order, yanking his boxers to his ankles before Mickey can even get his own hands to rise to his shorts. And of course he’s fucking grinning the whole damn time. Like he just won the end-of-the-world-lottery. Horny fuck. They’re gonna die and all he’s got to cross of his list of shit to do is eat some ass, suck some dick and get fucked in the ass. 

Fuckever. Could be worse. He feels a smile breaking on his own face, and the nerves in the pit of his stomach unwinding while he steps out of his boxers and Ian eyes his dick like it’s fuckin’ Christmas dinner or some shit. Christmas dinner? That’s probably a thing, right? Fuckever, “what’s your favorite holiday?”

“Your birthday.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious,” his damn strong hands land on Mickey’s ankles where they’re flush to his hips, “if you were never born, I wouldn’t be laying here right now. I’d be building a fortress in the Gallagher basement instead of about to get a face full of perfect dick.”

“Perfect,” he snorts at him.

“It is. Your entire self is fuckin’ perfect Mick. Now put your dick in my mouth,” he grins.

“Jesus,” he turns around, mostly to hide the stupid flush that’s happening in his face, lowering himself over the idiot, “if it gets you to shut the fuck up.”

“Mmhmm,” his fingers immediately close around Mickey’s hips and he starts guiding him to exactly where he wants him. 

Oh fuck. Damn cock looks huge this close. No way that’s all gonna fit down Mickey’s throat. Why the fuck did he agree to this shit? 

“Fuck,” now his dick is getting licked on and it’s twitching already. Fucking swirling his tongue around the tip of it, “fuck,” Jesus, fuck, Mickey better hurry the fuck up or he’s gonna be jizzing down Ian’s throat before he even gets that dick in his own mouth.

Here goes fuckin’ nothing. Fuck.


	5. Turn Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turn around... don't sing it... don't do it. No, don't... Bright eyes...

Turn Around

 

He’s not going to admit that’s the first time he’s swallowed jizz. It’s one thing to tell Mickey he’s never 69ed, or eaten ass. Or bottomed. But there are only so many things that he’s willing to share before Mickey would be thinking he’s a pussy. 

Fuck, he can’t fucking wait to do the rest of it. He has no idea how many times Mickey has sucked a dick, but it felt fucking great. Eager, impatient fucker took the whole damn thing down and never gagged. Kash sucked his dick once, he stopped him after awhile because he thought the guy was going to puke. Maybe some people think that gagging noises are a turn on, not Ian. 

So it turns out Ian’s the amateur here, maybe he gagged a little, but he’s pretty sure he stifled it enough that Mickey didn’t notice. He must not have, because he’s already pulling his wet shorts back up and he hasn’t said anything. If he noticed, he’d be teasing the hell out of him already, that’s a sure thing. 

It’s kind of fucking hilarious watching how perturbed he is over having to get back into a pair of soaking wet boxers. Looking at them like they’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. God, Ian loves that face. He loves every single expression that face makes. He just wishes he had been able to see last night’s expressions in broad daylight. 

One more thing, that’s one more thing he’ll have to check off his list of end-of-the-world goals. He smiles when Mickey’s eyes land on him, brows up, lips pursed, “ready yet tough guy?”

He doesn’t respond, isn’t sure if he has to, he just has to watch those lips for long enough for Mickey to half-cock his head for the okay to crash in. And he does. So Ian does. 

They only have so many more days to do this shit. But the way this guy kisses, even if they spent the entirety of their lives doing it, and lived to ninety, he’d still be left wanting more.

————

“The fuck you doin’ bitch?”

“I,” she jabs a stick into the fire she lit next to the river, “am cooking a fish.”

“Huh?”

She turns to face them with a cocky look in her eye, lifting a stick that she carved into a spear with a fish stabbed on the end of it, “told you we’d learn some shit from Naked and Afraid.”

“Fuckever, so you learned how to make a pointy stick pointier with a knife, and how to stab a fish with it. Big deal.”

“Yeah, and now it saves some of our rations for the next three weeks.”

“Rations? The fuck you talkin’ about?”

“You honestly think stores aren’t all emptied out by now? The shit we have, sure it’ll last us if we ration it out, but we can’t count on there being anything left to steal if we don’t pay close attention. Besides, I speared a fucking fish and one of you is going to filet that shit and cook it over a damn fire like we have some kind of fucking survival skills.”

Mickey’s gorgeous eyes roll, there’s no way in hell he’ll ever admit that it’s kind of badass that she speared a fish, “give me the damn knife.”

“You know how to filet a fish?” Ian wonders in shock.

“Uh no. But bitchwit over here made me watch that stupid fuckin’ show and it just ain’t that hard to cut up a damn fish and throw it over some fuckin’ coals ‘till it’s cooked.”

“What kind of fish is it?”

“I look like a fuckin’ guide here firecrotch?”

“No. But if you’re guiding like that,” he smiles as Mickey’s brows rise, “then I’m going wherever the fuck you’re leading,” his eyes dropping the length of Mickey’s nearly naked body in broad sunshine now. It’s probably getting kind of late. Late enough that they should decide if they’re going to spend the night right here, or move on. 

He rolls his eyes when Ian scans back up to his face. His body, it is the most incredible naked body Ian has ever seen. Every single scar has a story and Ian is dying to know them all. He wants to know all the stories and have every single scar memorized by the time it’s all over. Even if the memories are painful, and certainly most of them are, he still wants to know. 

“Oh, and I’m also boiling some river water for drinking,” Mandy is apparently going to pretend that none of the flirting happened. 

“You gonna drink it out of Mom’s china?”

“Yeah. Got a problem with that?”

He snorts out a laugh and she flips him off, “I’ll keep it all to myself then. You guys can spend the next nineteen days eating each other’s dicks and assholes I’ll get myself some real protein. And I’ll make use of this water so we don’t drink all the bottled shit before we’re ready to die.”

“Alright Bear Grylls, you do that.”

“Hey don’t blame me when you get sick off unboiled water. Or have to start drinking your own piss.”

“I ain’t gonna drink my own piss. And ain’t it like, if the water is moving then it’s clean enough to drink?”

“Depends on how close to the source it is,” Ian responds.

“Okay Army. Where’s the source of this giant fucking river that’s cold as shit and clear straight to the bottom?”

“I don’t know. That’s why she’s right. Boiling it is a safety measure.”

His eyes roll and his middle finger rises. A sight Ian never thought he’d see, Mickey’s FUCK U-UP fingers ripping the guts out of a fish. How the hell is that sexy? He makes the fucking jumpsuits in juvie look sexy. He makes ripped off sleeves look sexy. He makes smirks and sneers and death glares look sexy. And now he’s making gutting a fish look sexy.

Before Ian’s dick can get hard and make it’s way out of his boxers, he peels his focus away from his perfectly muscled arms. Watching Mandy instead, she’s setting another stick on her fire, “so, we just want to camp out here for the night then?” he wonders.

“Don’t see why the fuck not. Got a fire goin’. Got a little meal here, actually this bitch is pretty meaty for such an ugly cunt, fuck,” he chops the head off. He’s got a cocky smirk on his face when he lifts it and tosses it at Ian. 

And yeah, he looks like a giant pussy when he ducks and dodges it. Mickey laughs, of course he fucking does. 

“I bet if we found an actual rustic campground we could find a water pump.”

“Oh, okay tough guy, just act like that didn’t happen.”

“What didn’t happen?” 

“Act like you didn’t just jump away from a fish head like a little girl.”

“The fuck’s wrong with being a girl?” Mandy wonders.

“Not you,” Mickey waves her off with his hand, “you’re not a girl.” 

She opens her mouth but Ian interrupts, “it could be a Walleye.”

“It could be a fuckin’ whale, fuck if I care, it’s dinner.”

Damn it, that smirk. With the sun glinting off the surface of the river behind him and lighting him up like a damn religious illusion. Sunscreen probably would have been a good idea. Too late now, Ian sighs to himself as he scans the pale ass shoulders of his company and wonders which one will be crispier come nighttime. His own skin feels hot but it’s just been the norm this summer. Turns out, his freckles get darker and his skin never tans, just goes from burned back to white back to burned back to white. 

He’s never seen Mickey just standing around shirtless like this, but he has a tan-line from his ripped off sleeves. 

“Wanna try swimming again after we eat?”

His middle finger responds for him. It’s all slimy and bloody. It’s fitting. 

“I mean, I guess if we found a lake or broke into a house with a pool tomorrow or something, it’s probably easier to learn to float first.”  
“Floating would involve relaxing,” Mandy pipes up from where she’s poking at her fire, “good luck with that.”

Mickey’s snort is some translation of fuck off, but Ian has made up his mind. They’re both going to learn how to swim before they die. Plus, it could be kind of sweet to be floating in a lake while they watch the land around them burn and tremble and disappear. Or would a giant wave throw them against rocks and shore until they were pummeled to death?

Mickey’s probably right. Sitting on a cliff ledge to watch, front row seats and hopefully a quick death. 

————

“It ain’t bad.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“I like it,” enough to lick his fingers.

“‘Course you would,” Mickey’s brows are up, the warm glow of the fire reflecting on his face and dancing in his eyes. There should be some kind of joke about eating Mickey’s ass last night, but words and thoughts and anything that makes any sense falls out of Ian’s head as soon as his gaze lingers for long on those eyes. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mandy lifting the delicate china tea cup to her lips. A brief jarring to his system when he remembers Debbie sitting in her room with her stuffed bear offering it tea from the plastic set he’d dragged home from the curb outside that daycare down the street when she was seven. It was missing all the plates. It was just cups and silverware but he grabbed a Barbie to go with it. The Barbie ended up in the microwave a few days later. Compliments of Carl, but Debbie didn’t seem to care about the doll anyway. 

“Not bad,” she hands the cup over to Ian first, “still kind of warm.”

“Don’t you gotta drink out of that shit with your pinky up or some shit?”

“You do,” Mandy responds, “since you made fun of me for bringing it along. But the two of us get to drink out of it like non-eight-year-old girls.”

“Fuck you and your cup. I carried the fucker and didn’t break it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause we barely walked anywhere anyway.”

“It’s not bad,” Ian interjects, passing the cup over the fire to FUCK. He can’t help it, he can’t help grinning like an idiot when Mickey’s fingers brush against his and a heat rises in his body, taking over his cheeks and forcing his eyes to drop to the flames instead. The smile doesn’t leave though. Maybe he should make a list of daily goals, like just simple shit to do every single day between now and when the world implodes. Or explodes. Or however it all works out when it works out. 

Yep, he’s going to do that. And goal one for every single day is to get a smile out of Mickey. Looking to his right when he hears Mandy sigh, leaning back in the grass on the palms of her hands, her eyes closed as the last of the evening sun spreads a golden glow across her skin. Her too. He’s going to make her smile every day too. Maybe that’s all that can matter from here on out. 

He laughs when he hears Mickey spit out the water, “fuck. Fuck that warm shit. I’ll drink it straight out of the river. Might taste like dirt but ‘least it’s cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's weird for me to post a WIP without actually making progress on the storyline as I'm posting. But since this one stalled out for minute, and these last two have just been sitting around taking up space, might as well just share them :)
> 
> It's almost just too much fun to take these three out of canon before the shit hit the fan. I loved Ian so much in that phase of his puppy dog love for Mickey. And I loved Mickey at every single point, but interrupting all the later season stuff, it just makes me happy. Even if the world implodes. Or explodes. Or fuckever :)


	6. Team Of Psychos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was suggested I turn up the heat...
> 
> WARNING: VIOLENCE

Team Of Psychos

 

He ain’t sure how the fuck he ended up in the middle. Right between these two sweating shitheads who keep turning to face him and then their damn breathing is all synchronized in his face and it’s already too fucking hot for that shit. What the fuck? Ian was right about all the fuckin’ wildlife not bein’ able to shut the fuck up either. That true? Like they can just sense this fucking shit or something?

He lies awake listening to the river rushing past them, the gentle sound of his sister and the less gentle but still pretty fuckin’ okay sound of Ian. 

Mickey never knew there were so many damn stars in the sky. It’s like they’re layered right over top of one another. It ain’t nothin’ like poking holes in a piece of paper and shining a flashlight through it. It’s more than that. There’s like a million bright ones that look like he could just reach out and touch them, then there’s the lighter ones that are barely visible but still there dimly blinking in the background. And there’s like a swirl of dust too. It ain’t a cloud, it’s further away than that. Are there any galaxies visible with the naked eye from Earth? Or is that just a cluster of super faraway stars?

Fuck, his fingers rise to grind into his eyes. Sleep, sleep would be good. Turning his head to watch Ian now. How soft his face is when it’s asleep and the glow of the fire’s flames are lingering and shifting and passing over his features. He doesn’t stop his hand from reaching out, tracing a line across his jaw. Thumb slipping over his lips. They part on contact but he doesn’t wake. Lucky fucker. He’s certain if he even looked at Mandy for more than three seconds she’d be eyes open and ready for a fight. Guess that’s just a Milkovich thing. Or a child of Terry thing. Fuck knows. 

His hand is still moving, finding Ian’s arm and trailing down to his fingers. Pressing his between until they’re linked. He brings Ian’s hand to his lips. The dumb shit. Mickey’s still surprised he came along. Left his damn codependent siblings behind. S’pose he could have packed up the younger ones if he wanted, Mickey wouldn’t have turned those little fuckers down. Though they probably wouldn’t have come along without Fi.

City’s probably a fuckin’ uproar of shitheads tryin’ to get the supplies to last out the storm. Bein’ out in the middle of fuckin’ bumfuck nowhere is exactly the place to fuckin’ be. Even if the damn tree rats and birds and fucknot are makin’ so much fuckin’ racket he can’t fall asleep.

————

Shit, must have fallen asleep at some point and fallen pretty fuckin’ deep ‘cause when his bladder wakes him up well after sunrise he’s got Ian’s long gangly ass arms wrapped around him, his cheek leavin’ sweat on his chest and he’s fuckin’ droolin’. And Mandy’s bony ass is ground right up against his thigh on the other side. 

Fuckers. Fuck that shit. Fuck, blinking sleep out of his eyes as he stumbles his way out of this weird, fucking sweaty cocoon he’s managed to end up in. Mandy grumbles some kind of morning curse at him, rolls over and passes back out. Fuckin’ Gallagher doesn’t even stir. ‘Course he doesn’t.

Well the sound of the river ain’t exactly helping the bladder situation. There ain’t a good canvas around this place to write his name. What’s the fuckin’ trees with the white bark, that stuff that rolls off like a scroll, that shit could be cool to write his name on. Or would it just rebound and splatter back at him? Either fuckin’ way, worth a shot. Worst case he has to rinse himself off in that cold ass water, guess it wouldn’t hurt to bathe a little anyway. ‘Specially if Ian’s got more plans for eatin’ ass. Queer as that shit is, fuck, it felt good.

“Fuck, shit, fucker,” when a sharp fuckin’ rock implants itself firmly in the arch of his foot, “goddamnit,” his hand lands on a tree when he lifts his foot to inspect the damage, “little bastard,” just a dent. No blood or nothin’. 

When he glances over at the tree he’s using for a cane, he smiles, “perfect,” one of those scroll bark type trees, “fuckin’ eh,” the stuff under his fingers is already peeling, he’ll peel it off, lay it on the ground and write his name on it.

Or he could write Ian’s name on it, maybe with soot from the fire, bring it back to him as a gift. Guess they’re kinda boyfriend and boyfriend or some shit now, so he could do somethin’ romantic. 

Maybe not. Just his name? That’s pretty fuckin’ lame. But the dipshit would probably keep it ’til he died. How fuckin’ romantic. Fuck. Pulling his dick out to leave his piss in the grass instead. This damn bark is kinda cool. And it ain’t like he’s goin’ soft in his final days or nothin’, just fuckever. Maybe he could draw the ginger a map or some fuck, like plan some kind of treasure hunt when they get where they’re goin’. Fuckin’ stupid, he ain’t got nothin’ to put at the end. ‘Cept his ass. But sending the ginger dope on a treasure hunt would just take time away from the actual fucking. 

Shrugging it all off, this fuckin’ end of the world shit is messin’ with his head. Like he wants that damn Gallagher twit to enjoy it or something even if they end up dead, which, most likely they’ll end up dead. But it’s hard to really wrap his head around that. Not like he ever expected to live to have grey bush, but he didn’t expect to die at seventeen either. Or like eighteen. Fuck, he expected to die in prison. Go down for some stupid shit like attempted murder, take a fuckin’ plea deal to keep the heat off a sibling or some fuck. Rot behind bars for a decade but at least it’s food and a roof over his head. More than Terry ever gave them. Fuck him. Guess prison wouldn’t end well for a queer. But neither would livin’ with Terry.

He slides the roll of bark in the waistband of his boxers, right up against his spine. This fuckin’ woods, man it is like so goddamned loud and there is so much movement. It’s impossible to track all the movement. Tree rats, birds, even the way the wind moves the leaves. 

How do frog legs taste? Probably wouldn’t be hard to find some damn frogs around here. That ugly fuckin’ fish tasted pretty damn good and ain’t frog legs s’posed to be some kind of rich person meal? Or just some Southern meal? Or is it the eggs that are rich person food? Fish eggs?

Berries. Blueberries? Sure as fuck. He crouches down and eats a few, not that he’s ever been much of one for fruit but it ain’t like they could afford somethin’ that fancy anyway, like blueberries. But he remembers old Ms Bodnar’s blueberry muffins, those fuckers were good. Fuck. He’s gonna sit here and eat this shit all day, or he could be nice and tell the others. Or he could be really nice and find something to put them in, pick a bunch and bring them back. Well, for now, he’s just going to eat some. Fuck, they taste like candy. Then later he’ll get something out of the truck to fill up. End of the world shit is makin’ him a lot nicer or some fuck.

Shit, he’s just gotta figure out how to get back to the river without stepping on anything spiked or sharp. He stops in his tracks when he hears a voice he doesn’t recognize. It’s coming from the direction of their campsite. 

Then Ian, “just leave her the fuck alone. Take whatever you want, everything we have, just leave her alone.”

Shit. Shit. Shit, that fuckin’ chastity belt would have been a good idea. At least she wouldn’t get raped, she might get beat, but fuck, being beat is better than being raped. Ain’t it? Fuck. It’s way too fuckin’ early in the morning and way too fuckin’ early in the road trip for this shit to be happening already. 

He ain’t got time to go back to the truck for guns. That fuckin’ hunting knife is… fuck, it’s next to the fire on that big ass rock where he set it after he gutted the fish. 

His stomach clenches as the undeniable sound of fist-in-stomach filters into his head along with Ian’s groan. Rage boils up his spine, biting his lower lip as he gets low and starts slinking closer. Shit, these fucking trees and all this fucking underbrush. Sure, it’ll provide good cover but it’s impossible to stay silent and he can’t see a fucking thing through all this dense forest shit.

What else was there? Mandy’s fishing spear. Yeah, that thing was pretty impressive. She must have used her pocket knife to sharpen it. And if she’s even mildly Milkovich she’s got the pocket knife tucked in her bra. Fuck, do rapists strip their victim? Fuck, fuck, fuck.  
His hand is steady when he reaches out to pull a branch out of his way. The damn river, fuck, that’s perfect, the fucking river is so goddamn loud when you’re right next to it, they won’t hear him coming. Unless he’s super fucking loud. 

Well there’s only two of ‘em. Fuckin’ cakewalk. His mouth is dry as fuck when he sees one of ‘em has a handgun against Ian’s temple. He’s on his knees, hands up at his sides, blood trickling from his mouth and dripping in a slow leak down his sun-burned chest. And there’s a shotgun leaned against a tree. His entire body trembles with rage when he scans over to the next tree where some shithead’s got Mandy backed up against it. He tied her fucking hands, but he’s bleeding, pretty fucking heavily from his nose. At least she hit him. He’s holding the rope tied around her wrists with one hand and the other is gripping her chin, his face is right against hers and he’s sayin’ something to her. Mickey can’t hear it over the rushing water, but that stupid motherfucker is about to get his. As soon as his hand drops to her shorts, Mickey’s eyes dart over to find the fishing spear. It’s rooted in the dirt by the river, pointy side down, sure it just looks like a stick in the mud. Fuckin’ perfect, he has plenty of time to grab that before they see him. 

Just gotta find the right opening. Shit, a distraction would be perfect. 

His eyes drop back over to Ian, who’s senses seem to be picking up Mickey’s presence. How the fuck? He really smell that bad? Fucker’s nose is twitching like some damn prey pickin’ up the scent of an incoming predator. His eyes shift, scanning the bushes that Mickey is crouched behind. Discreet, fuck, he never thought there was a single Gallagher capable of discreet. 

Shit, how the fuck’s he signal that he needs a distraction? Thing is, if Ian keeps this dumb fuck busy for just a second, just long enough for Mickey to grab the spear then they can do this. But if he shoots Ian in the head, then fuck, bile threatens to rise at the thought of it.  
Fuck, shit, he knows, fuck, his face shifts, looking at the guy with the handgun, sucking in on his cheeks for a minute and launching a wad of spit at him. Shit, Mickey moves. Every single minuscule sound registering in his ears over the whooshing of blood. The sound of steel on bone and Ian’s pained grunt. The sound of Mandy’s shout, “fuck you! I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Too late,” Mickey’s voice exits calm and steady, jabbing the fishing spear through the guy’s eye when he turns towards the sound of Mickey’s voice. 

Ian’s crumpled on the ground but he’s breathin’. The guy is screaming and a shotgun blast echoes in his head and clenching his guts, fuck. Mandy. Shit, pain. Cold and hot at the same time ripping into his right asscheek. Mandy’s still screaming threats and when he jolts forward with whatever force hit his backside, he turns his head to see her on the shotgun holder’s back, her tied wrists working at strangling him. 

Fuck, his ass hurts, but his vision his clear and his mind is strangely sharp. The handgun fucker has shit for a grip since the gun is on the ground, and his hands are both at his face where the spear is lodged in his eye. Fuck, guess he should have used more force, jabbed that shit into his brain, take care of him quick. Shit, his screaming is distracting and he’s stumbling towards the fire in his blind panic. 

Dropping to the dirt for the abandoned handgun, first shot is an easy choice. Kneecap of the shotgun fucker. Won’t chance hitting Mandy that way, but he’ll be hurtin’ enough to drop that fucking shotgun. 

“Shut the fuck up!” he hears himself shout at the idiot with the speared eye, pointing the gun at shotgun fucker, “push the gun towards the girl,” he’s not goin’ down so easy. On the ground, but he’s still got the gun within reach. The guy hesitates, looking like he’s testing Mickey, his hand that’s on his wounded knee starts making way towards the shotgun. 

The second shot he fires is in the dirt beside him. Not saying a word, just raising his brows and aiming at his head.

“Okay,” he hollers it, shoving the gun in the dirt towards where Mandy has come to a halt behind him. 

Her face has, ‘what next?’ written all over it as she takes the shotgun in her grasp, placing the barrel to the back of the guy’s head. And he don’t know, Mickey don’t know what next. Fuck. This little trip out of the city was s’posed to just be fuckever way to get out to the middle of bumfuck nowhere and watch the world crumble. And now they’ve got two wounded idiots to take care of. Or finish off. And Ian’s unconscious ass will probably lose his shit if he has to help dig a grave when he wakes up. Why the fuck would they dig a grave? Ain’t like they’ll do time for killin’. Fuck, this is the wild west now, there ain’t law. 

All they got to live with is their conscience. Or Ian, like a real life Jimminy Cricket. Fuck, “tie ‘em up. We’ll figure it out,” and fuck, his ass hurts, “shut the fuck up!” hollering at the speared idiot, stalking over and shoving him down in the dirt, foot on his chest as he yanks the spear back out. Fuck, that was nasty. Nasty enough that Mickey maybe gagged a little when he looked at all the shit hangin’ off the end of the spear. Or gagged a lot, or fuck, he lurches over to the bushes and purges the bile and blueberries. 

“Hey, what do ya know? Blueberry puke ain’t bad. Kind of tastes like blueberry wine or some fuck.”

“Blueberries? You found blueberries?” Mandy hasn’t moved, keeping control of the injured attackers with the shotgun. Since ‘pparently Mickey’s a bitch about eyeball goo. 

Fuck, he gags again. The one on the dirt in front of Mandy starts talkin’, but she ain’t listenin’, winding up with the shotgun and taking him out of this current world with the impact of the butt of the gun to his temple. 

“Guess that’s one way to control a situation,” Ian’s voice is like fucking music and Mickey didn’t realize how fuckin’ beautiful his voice is until just this fucking moment. Fuck, those ain’t tears on his face, those are watery eyes from pukin’. He takes the steps to the river planning on washing out his mouth, keeping his hearing on the guy who is still conscious, fallen to his butt in the dirt at least, holding his face in his hands, “fuck Mickey, you got shot,” his voice is coming closer. And Mickey should tell him to sit the fuck down, he’s probably concussed. A pistol whippin’ ain’t a good feeling. 

“Yes, I fuckin’ know I got shot,” though he didn’t. That why his ass hurts? Fuck. He turns instinctively to check what he can see of his own rear, “fuck.”

“Yeah,” Ian’s within reach now, leaning forward to scope that shit out out too, “looks like pellets of some sort.”

“It’s buckshot,” the one conscious fucker tells them, he’s leaned back against a rock now. The blood is pooling at his hand and dripping down his wrist, arm, catching in the crook of his elbow and dripping into the dirt and grass. 

“He’s too lucid for my liking,” Mandy announces, motioning with her head towards him, “tie his ankles or something at least.”

“Fuck, yeah, okay,” Ian’s worried gaze, pupils kind of fucked up, land on Mickey’s face. 

“Shit.”

“Fuckin’ Christ you two. Get these dumb fucks subdued and you can gaze tenderly at each other’s wounds for the rest of the fucking day. I promise,” her eyes are narrowed and if she wasn’t aiming a shotgun, Mickey is certain her hands would be on her hips, “unless one of you is going to keel over dead, then get to it.”

————

“Fuck, ow, fuck, Ian, fuck,” bent over the back end of the truck with Ian playing with his ass is not supposed to be painful, “fuck.”

“You’re doing fine Mick. One more.”

“Yeah well you ain’t the one getting pellets dug outta your ass without any fuckin’ painkillers.”

“Yeah well, all I got is Tylenol, you’re just lucky we have a medic bag and can dig this lead out.”

“Fuck! You doin’ this with your fuckin’ eyes closed? Got double vision?”

“No,” he stops pinching around with those fuckin’ tong things, they land on the paper sheet thing beside Mickey’s elbow, next to the pellets he already dug out, “I just, fuck Mick. I’m not used to blood and… you, I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“Huh?”

“I mean,” he clears his throat and Mickey cranes his neck to be able to see his face. They tied enough parachute chord around those fuckers that there ain’t a way in Hell they’ll get loose from that tree. Maybe they’ll both bleed out while they’re busy tending wounds back here. Mandy’s got both their guns, and they can kind of see her from where they moved the truck, but it’s still making him nervous as fuck for her to be alone with them. His stupid smile is tender, face starting to turn shades of red, that’s going to be one nasty fucking bruise, “I want to do a lot of things to your ass, hurting it though, that’s not on the list.”

He feels himself smile, even though he don’t want to. Cocking his head, “c’mere fucker.”

“Ow,” muffled against Mickey’s lips when he dives into his mouth, like he forgot his face was fucked up. Doesn’t stop him though. Horny fucker. Neither does the left over taste of blueberry puke in Mickey’s mouth. Fuck. Like the kid ain’t got senses other than his sense of smell or some fuck. 

“Alright, back off tough guy,” his voice is softer than he intended, and Ian lingers against his forehead for a breath, “let’s get this done.”

His response is a nudge against his nose, which only makes Mickey latch onto his lips again. Fuck him. But fuckever, kid’s probably runnin’ on some weird adrenaline thing and concussion glaze and he’s probably feelin’ weird about the violence. Ain’t like they killed the fuckers, ain’t like they did anything to ‘em they didn’t deserve, but this is the kind of shit that Ian ain’t used to. Sure, Mickey’s seen it plenty of times, or something like it. Been on the receiving end of a few, well that’s the first time he’s seen eyeball goo, but the rest is pretty normal Milkovich House of Horrors type shit. So he ain’t fazed by it. 

Ian though? Even if he doesn’t admit it, this scenario has him shaken. And that’s just fuckin’ fine. That’s how it’s s’posed to be. If none of that effected him, then he’d be a sociopath or a psychopath, fuckever one he’d be. 

When he leans out this time, he taps Ian’s uninjured cheek gently, “you got this? Or I gotta have bitchwit over there finish up?”

“I got this,” a tiny confident smile rising, a deep breath, “bend over. You should be used to that by now.”

His middle finger responds for him. And this time, he’s not sure if it’s Ian’s pelvis leaning against his hip, or his gloved hand putting gentle pressure on the asscheek next to the pellet, or the sound of him breathing. Or something queer, like how soothing that fucking kiss was, but this time it don’t hurt nearly as much to dig that pellet out. 

————

“I’ve got a plan,” Mandy announces when she hears them coming back down the narrow walking trail. Or maybe a game trail? Or do those things only exist in Africa, when it’s like big game? Fuck knows. What kind of game is around here anyway? Ain’t like they got water buffalo or elephants packing this shit down.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” he responds, eyes drifting to their captives. She gagged them both, “piss you off?”

She smirks, kicking at the foot on the end of the injured leg, “this one doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up. And he sure in the fuck doesn’t know how to treat a fuckin’ lady.”

“Lady?” Mickey starts, but her death glare lands on him and he takes a step back with his hands up.

“We’re going to slash their tires. Untie them. And leave them here. If they make it out, then they deserve to survive. If they don’t,” she shrugs, “then I guess they die three weeks before the rest of the world. Either way, seems like a fair price to pay for attempted rape.”

Mickey’s lower lip has been sucked into his mouth, teeth meeting the tender skin over and over while he scans first the captives, next his sister, and finally Ian. Ian shrugs, “seems fair to me. It’s not like we have the supplies to share. Medical or otherwise. And why the fuck should we help them out? They came here, ready for a fight, they got it. We aren’t making the rules of the game, we’re just following theirs.”

“Got a point.”

“Mmm hmm,” Mandy smiles, “I like his point. C’mon let’s load up. Last thing we do is untie them.”

“Deal,” Mickey smirks at his sister. S’pose if they do somehow survive the coming apocalypse, he’s got a pretty damn fine team of psychos to work with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I personally think one of my weak spots in writing is action sequences, so please tell me what you think. Um, constructively. I can't fucking stand people who are not constructive. Any 'I don't like it' without any legitimate reason will make me take out my anger on our beloved characters... 
> 
> I'm starting to map out an endgame here in my head. But my endgame might involve tossing apocalypse theories, which I guess is okay since the world hasn't ended yet in real time, so the only thing we can base it all on is theory and the dinosaurs. I was thinking I'd set us up for nothing less than utter disaster and complete human extinction in this one, and then I'd do a post-apo work as a separate piece further down the road. But I'm having a weird crises over not wanting to do more than twenty works for one fandom and I'm at nineteen with three other open works and two on top of that which are not snip, snap, snouted either. So the six including this one could keep me busy for like a year or more. And a crossover ending on the Freedom work is shifting around in my head, but that would be work twenty, so it'd have to be epic. Or maybe I'm just kidding myself thinking I can end my Mickaholism by cutting myself off cold turkey before S10 even takes off and more than likely pisses me off. 
> 
> Mandy, let's face it, she just might be the baddest ass of the Milkoviches. She hit-and-ran a girl in some cold-blooded premeditated fashion and then scared out a child molester when the rest of the neighborhood was too chicken-shit to do it... so I could easily see her tough-as-nails and borderline psycho teenager shit working in our favor if shit gets violent. 
> 
> So much for not posting in August. But this is the only chapter I have written for this one, and since I'm having so much wishy-washy in my head about how I want this to end, I figure if I post the chapters as I'm writing them and I get some helpful feedback it might force me to pick a direction. Doesn't mean I'll cater to a particular whim, but maybe a melting pot of all the whims - and you guys know me by now, I don't mind brutal...


	7. The One Percent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An accidental detour

The One Percent

 

Mandy sighs, turning her head to look Ian over in the passenger side, “well thanks to me you got pistol whipped and he got shot in the ass.”

“No, not at all. That wasn’t your fault. That was some assholes who just wanted to raid our supplies and,” he clears his throat, voice trailing off, watching the road straight ahead. 

“Rape me,” she finishes for him.

“Yeah. That,” she feels his head turn towards her again, but she keeps her eyes on the road.

“How’s your face?”

“Fine.”

“It looks pretty fucked up.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“Yep. Don’t think your boyfriend cares how you look though,” she smirks towards him, taking note of the blush that rises from his neck.

“Probably shouldn’t call him that.”

“Fuck that. He’s passed out, he’ll be out for the rest of the ride today.”

Now his head snaps towards her, “did you give him something?”

“Uh, fuck yeah. Do you have any idea how annoying he’d be sitting in the truck with a sore ass?”

Craning his neck to look at Mickey, he’s belly down on the floor between the seats, drooling on his arm, “you’re probably right.”

“I’m always right. I’m a woman. And I’m right about him being your boyfriend, whether you two want to label it or not.”

“But, just don’t let him hear that.”

“Why? Think he’s a homophobe? Or a commitmentphobe?”

“Both,” he shrugs, “I don’t know. He’s always saying…”

“Mickey says a lot of shit. And most of the shit he says is shit that he doesn’t mean. You know how to tell the difference?”

“Um… no.”

“The look in his eye.”

“Huh?”

“Watch it. Every time he spews a line that he doesn’t really mean, like something that’s just been beat into him by Terry, his eyes are all narrow and dull. But when he’s saying something he means, or doing something he enjoys but would never admit to enjoying because it’d get him a beatdown; then his eyes are all bright and twinkly.”

She turns her attention back to the road, wondering which highway she’s supposed to take now, crossing into Michigan. Into more trees and green, can’t be that many highways in the woods, if the Porcupines are on Lake Superior then she needs to stay on the lake. So East. Along the shoreline. 

Ian’s still turned, scanning over Mickey’s sleeping form, “what’d you give him?”

“That’s for me to know.”

“Hey, if we’re spending the last few weeks of our lives together then we need to honest with one another.”

“A couple of Valium. He’ll sleep like a baby. Exactly like a baby, all grumpy and whiny and full of shit.”

Ian laughs, that goofy carefree laugh that makes Mandy smile. She lets the laugh linger in the air between them, thankful as all fuck that the air conditioning works in this thing, she knew what underboob sweat was before this sudden sharp climate change, but she didn’t know what permanent underboob sweat was. Constant slime, fuck, balls are probably fucking gross. They’re even more bound in by skin.

Her gaze flits over to Ian, who is still smiling with his face aimed out the window. Sure, things with Lip were fun, but if he had come along for this it would be nothing but sarcasm and anger all the time. He is kind of a pompous ass. Whether he’s earned it or not, whatever, he’s a dick. 

“So how do you think it’s going in the Gallagher fortress?”

“Well since they were talking about repopulating the Earth when I left,” he laughs, “I don’t even want to know.”

“So even if all we’re doing it going to some cliff to watch it all explode, you’re okay with that? The chance of survival is probably higher in the basement of your house.”

“Yeah, I’m okay with that. I said my goodbyes. I don’t want to die in some cramped basement where if we survived the initial event, we’d probably starve to death or end up with some kind of illness and die slow. Even if we managed to make it through that, we end up down there for years and what’s left of the world when we reenter it? A bunch of shitheads fighting for survival? No, Mickey’s right about this, better to die fast and painless.”

“You think it’ll be painless?”

“Fuck, I hope so. If not,” he motions towards the weapon supply, “we can make it that way.”

Silence falls around them for a few minutes, watching the maples and pines, oaks, wildflowers whirring by alongside the two lane highway that seems to be swallowed whole by the woods at every curve. It’s opened back up to the sight of the lake, all blue-green and sand-lined. With tall grass that looks like it would tickle along the shins, but Mandy can practically feel the sand between her toes as her hands linger over every blade of grass, the sun kissing warmth into her skin, a warmth she’s never felt in the city. The unimpeded rays of their star, nothing but atmosphere between them. No pollution hanging low on the horizon, no manmade clouds to block out the bands of brilliant light. 

“Hey?” Ian’s quiet, almost dreamy. She wonders if she should have checked closer for signs of concussion, but he’s been awake this whole time, and hasn’t complained of any nausea or dizziness.

“Hmm?”

“If we do, for some act of God, or Destiny, or whatever; end up surviving this,” he sighs, heaviness starting to creep into his voice as she feels his eyes lingering on her face, “I need you to promise me something.”

“Yeah, I’ll do a fake wedding for you two homos,” she smirks at him. But a smile doesn’t break on his face, seriousness firmly rooted in his expression, long enough that she admits, “anything. I’ll promise you anything Ian. You know that.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking you and not Mickey.”

“Well, I mean, if you’re asking me to kill you if shit gets fucked up…”

“That too, I mean I think we’re all on the same page about that, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. Bullet in the skull is less painful that radiation poisoning or, really, a simple injury could be a death sentence, all gangrene and stuff.”

“Exactly. But, I, um,” his hand slides through his hair and his focus shifts out the window again. 

“Jesus Ian,” she jerks the truck off the road into some gravel turn-around and jams it into park, “what?” hand reaching out to lace fingers through his when it drops from his head.

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t taken aback by the pain radiating from his eyes, like the depth of his soul is reaching out to stroke her cheek, “Monica, um, you know, she’s bipolar. And pretty bad bipolar. Not that there’s such thing as good bipolar, or easy bipolar, or, I guess, well anything like that is hard. But I mean, she’s, fuck, she’s fucking crazy Mandy and I can only imagine what having someone like her around when you’re trying to survive some post-apocalyptic horror would mean. If you loved someone like that, you’d be constantly chasing after them, making sure they weren’t getting themselves killed on some manic high. Or you’d be desperately seeking shelter when they’re too depressed to keep moving and they can’t just lie out in the elements and go to waste. I mean, it’s,” his free hand rises to scrub the length of his face as his eye contact falters, taking a deep breath, “what I’m saying,” meeting her gaze and holding it, “if by some strange chance we do survive. And I end up like Monica. Please promise me, you will not let Mickey chase after me. Please, if it comes to it, please put a bullet in my head.”

“Ian,” it shakes a little and she wants to blow him off, reassure him that there’s no way in Hell they’ll survive. And there’s no way in Hell he’ll end up like Monica. And there’s no way in Hell she’ll actually put a bullet in his head. But the pleading in his eyes and his fingertips gripped down on her hand, the honesty and holy fuck, the love he has, for whatever fucked reason, for Mickey by even asking such a thing, “Jesus Ian, fine. I promise.”

“You promise what?” his hand floats in the space between them, pinky out waiting for hers to link.

She rolls her eyes, but does it anyway, “I promise that if you end up Hurricane Ian, I will put you down before you can take us down with you.”

“Good,” his eyes pinch closed for a moment, a breath of relief, “thank you.”

“Don’t fucking thank me, just don’t end up Hurricane Ian, okay?”

“I’ll try, but I can’t really promise it.”

“Fuck you,” her lip trembles against her will, blinking back the stinging of tears, pretending none of that happened as she steers them back onto the two-lane highway with broken asphalt and potholes that could swallow a Smart EQ without even burping.

————

Houses have started to filter in on the side of the road. Small clusters of them breaking up the pattern of trees at first. A driveway here, a driveway there. All gravel and dirt and two-tracks. A rusty mailbox and a red newspaper box on the shoulder from time to time. Little run down shacks with canoes and kayaks pulled up into the weeds and cattails. A tiny bridge across a trickle of a creek, well covers that are built out of wood with a little roof on it and a tiny bucket hanging underneath, swaying back and forth in the breeze coming in off the lake’s surface. Outhouses backed up against the tree-line in every yard. The crescent moon carved in the door. 

Some of the shacks so close to the water, it’s begun to touch their front corners. Left abandoned as the polar ice melt has raised the lake levels to unprecedented amounts, no different than the oceans. These camps and cabins that have stood for generations now being pounded down to nothing by Mother Nature’s fury. The ditches along the road look like rivers in some places. Overflowing with backwash from the waves of a Great Lake. It was noticeable in Chicago, from what Mandy saw. It was noticeable that the water levels were rising quickly, the trail of algae Lake Michigan was leaving on the cement walls along the ledge by Millennium Park. All the warning of wildlife in the lake falling out of balance, the algae blooms that were happening in The Great Lakes that had never happened before. Leaving the water rust colored and rising an odor that lingered for weeks. Dead fish floating around in the Chicago River. Fishing boats coming into shore empty of catch. Freighters that remained on the docks for longer then planned, unable to pull up anchor and brave the angry lakes even in the middle of summer. 

Maybe it was Lip that got her curiosity piqued last summer, when he went on a tangent about global climate change being ignored for the sake of industry and the face of politicians. And maybe she started reading the articles when they crossed her radar, the National Geographic in the school library when detention was held there, the Popular Science when her manager at the restaurant was off shift and she’d pick through his locker for anything of interest. 

And maybe once she read these things, maybe she started seeing them. And it was too late already, wasn’t it? The world won’t change for the sake of the Earth. The only thing they had left was to get as far away from the centers of humanity as they could before it ended. She’d never say it, she would never in a million years say it to Mickey’s face, but he was right about that. Get out of this hellhole and away from these shitheads before the shit hits the fan and the fuckin’ fan only got one speed: high. Of course there were eyebrows involved, pursed lips and hands flailing out at his sides like he was forming the punctuation in the air between them.

“Holy shit,” she hears Ian vocalize what she’s thinking when the old camps and shacks and run-down houses turn into mansions on the lakeshore. A little motel, a bed and breakfast, and a ridiculous modern mansion. Glass, steel, and concrete. With a Mercedes parked in the spotless cement drive. 

The north side of the highway remains lined with unassuming houses. Red, white, and blue rippling in the wind on the porch rail of every house. The small yards planted with plots of vegetables and sunflowers facing the sky. Tilted back with their brown eyes on the sky and their bright yellow pedals like outstretched arms cupping the sunshine. Apple trees and maples. Giving way to cedars in the wetlands between the houses. The houses there for so long they’ve become a part of the landscape themselves. Living beside the trees they were born from.

The south side of the highway is concrete, pavement, blacktop and money. Manicured lawns and not a single natural source of shade. 

“You ever wonder how the one percent live?”

He smiles smugly at her as she turns into a driveway on the lakeshore side of the highway.

“Someone’s gotta keep their summer house warm while they’ve taken off in their private jet to the holiday vacation house in the Maldives.”

“Fuck yes, they do.”

————

“Still have power,” she sighs, flipping on a light in the kitchen. All marble and granite and stainless.

“Probably a wired-in generator that kicks on automatically when the power goes out. It’ll run out of gas eventually,” Ian sighs, tracing a finger along the ledge of the countertop, eyes scanning over the room. 

It wasn’t hard to get in. Just busted a window out and disconnected the alarm system, not that any cops would show anyway, but it’d be annoying as fuck for that thing to keep going. 

Mandy pulls the refrigerator door open, “fully stocked,” removing an apple and taking a big chuck out of it, “mmm, nothing like non-gmo organic snobby fucking produce,” tossing one towards him, “chase it down with some fucking expensive snobby wine. Probably a wine cellar downstairs.”

“Rich people,” Ian sighs, but he’s smiling when he takes a bite of the red apple in his hand.

The living room is all black leather and virgin white shag, the latest in technology and lighting. Glass with a view of the lake. And the pool. A patio that covers the entirety of what used to be beach grass and rolling sand dunes. The sand has blown it’s way onto the pavers and the umbrella has pulled the table over to it’s side. There are leaves floating in the pool on it’s raised wooden platform. The hot tub with it’s vinyl cover layered in a dusting of sand. Beyond that is the lake. Rolling with gentle waves that can turn rage filled whitecaps in an instant. A black thunder cloud on the horizon, “good thing we’ve got shelter for tonight,” she sighs, her finger aimed at the incoming storm.

“Yeah. Guess we should drag Mickey inside, huh?”

“After our grand tour.”

The hallway alongside the veranda opens to two bedrooms, all neat and tidy. One with stuffed animals lined thoughtfully along the pillows. One with a jewelry box open on the dresser and a Shawn Mendes poster on the wall. The open closet door reveals designer labels and handbags. The bathroom connecting the bedrooms holds a rain shower and double sink. Tiled and drywalled in the colors of the beach. 

“Fancy,” Mandy mumbles as her finger slides across the towel that probably has a thread count, she laughs to herself at the thought, the toilet paper is probably made of silk.

Up the staircase, so modern with it’s swooping lines and open plank design to allow more use of the natural lighting spilling through the windows, “so minimalist,” she smirks, feeling as though her mere presence is dirtying the space. 

Upstairs is the grand master bedroom. All polished hardwood, steel framed windows overlooking the lake. An inlayed gas fireplace that spans the length of the wall opposite the bed. A painting of a dock scene hung above the headboard of the king sized bed. White. Black pillows and a throw arranged just so in the center, “I see the maid visited after the family took off.”

“Fuck,” he’s standing the middle of the room, looking like he’s not sure if he should have taken off his shoes and scrubbed his feet clean before entering, or if he should drop his drawers and take a shit on the pillow.

She flops herself down on the bed, making a snow angel and a mess of the bedding with a giggle, “who the fuck has a leather sofa in their bedroom? What is the point of that? Come, relax, have a seat, drink your wine in my fancy fucking bedroom while I scan through my walk-in closet for my newest dress that I have to starve myself for a week to fit into. We’ll board the yacht at dusk and watch the sun splashing a watercolor painting across the sky as Pierre plays the mandolin softly over the rocking of the waves.”

She closes her eyes and feels Ian’s weight land on the bed beside her, admitting, “I hate rich people.”

“Yeah. But you know, growing up poor and fighting for food and the roof over our heads has prepared us for this. Those dumb fucks sitting in the Maldives pretending that their money can save them from certain death, they’re just naive and stupid. Probably think this is some biblical event where God only takes the trashy fucks like us and spares the righteous rich twats to carry on with a world of their own creation after the dust settles.”

“Probably going to be some drinking the Kool-aid type shit happening all over the world.”

“Probably. People are fucking crazy.”

“Won’t hear me argue that.”

————

“What the fuck Mandy?” his hands are on his hips, scanning his surrounding with high brows and pursed lips from where he stands beside the truck, “wrong fucking lake.”

“What?”

“This is still Lake Michigan. Lake Superior is that way,” K pointing the way north. 

“Shit. Oh well, this is a better place to sit out that storm moving in anyway.”

He shakes his head, mumbling something about never letting a woman drive while he takes in the house, “what the fuck is this?”

“We’re going to play dress up and drink wine that costs more than our house.”

He snorts something at her, but Ian’s hand lands on his lower back and his mouth stops moving for like thirty seconds, just long enough for his eyes to make contact with Ian’s and some weird calm takes over his features, his eyes softening while the contact lingers. Some unspoken agreement to be nice for once, or maybe some kind of concern for the physical wellbeing of them both. Mansion’s probably the place to be if he doesn’t want to end up with some kind of flesh eating bacteria in his asscheek wounds. 

His fingers rise, grinding into his eyes in annoyance for a long moment, pulling back and blinking hard to get her face to come into focus. Brows darting back up his forehead, “alright, how do the one percenters live bitch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder, how do the one percent live?
> 
> Guess a rainy afternoon can get a chapter out in pretty short order :)


	8. Cooking Oil, Wine, Tequila, and Weed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I stayed up way too late last night... 
> 
> I feel like I should run a disclaimer here - The writer's view points are not expressed by any of the characters (now or ever). And also - the fictional setting is based on a non-fictional setting, but it is still a fictional setting by the time the worlds are meshed together.

Cooking Oil, Wine, Tequila, and Weed

 

“So you’re gonna plastic wrap and duct tape my ass,” brows up in disbelief, roll of tape in one hand, beer in the other, “and then expect me to get in a fuckin’ pool? Where fuck knows what kind of shit is in there or the last time it was fuckin’ loaded with chemicals to burn your fuckin’ skin off but kill the brain-eating amoeba, fuck knows what it’ll do if your little duct tape plan fails and that shit gets in my ass.”

Ian shrugs, a smile spreading on his face, even though his cheek is sore enough that every time he smiles too big it makes his eyes water, “yeah.”

“Jesus fuckin’…”

“Gorilla tape. It’s gorilla tape. Regular duct tape is only waterproof for a short time. But gorilla tape…”

“Fuck you and your gorilla tape.”

“That a yes? I mean, I could skip the plastic wrap, put the tape directly over your little bandaids here and then when I pull the tape off, it’ll yank the bandaids and whatever scab is starting to form.”

“Thank the fuckin’ apo-god you ain’t a fuckin’ EMT or some shit,” scoffing as he sets his beer down on the counter. The sound of his belt buckle sends a tingle straight to Ian’s dick but he stifles it, sort of. Fuck. Now the curve of his pale hip is visible and he’s leaning over the barstool in this fancy damn kitchen. And Mandy is outside already. Sitting in the hot tub watching the clouds swirling over the lake. They could sneak off, easily. So easily.

He hears himself make some kind of weird noise and Mickey’s head turns, brows up, “gonna get this the fuck over with or what?”  
He’s holding his shorts up in a haphazard way, trying to keep his uninjured cheek covered. Why? Holy fuck, why? They’re basically alone in this giant house and they’ve got access to three beds and a few couches and that’s more comfort than they’ll have for the rest of their lives and…

“The fuck Gallagher? Little hit to your head fry a few fuckin’ circuits or what?”

It’s like his body just won’t move. the presence of Mickey’s bare ass has made his brain shut down and his body uncontrollable, fuck. He just wants to reach out, he just wants to reach out and slide his thumb across Mickey’s jaw, see if he opens his mouth again. If that’s some kind of stimuli that’ll work every time. He wants to taste him, taste him now with the lingering cigarettes and beer, the way he’s used to smelling him. The way he tasted the first time he kissed him. Fuck, Mickey tastes good.

Fuck, the plastic wrap and the roll of tape are landing on the counter, his hands are reaching out without him giving the permission, fingers clamping down in Mickey’s hips and he’s going face first into that crack that is begging to be licked. 

“The fuck Gallagher,” but it’s strangled and the exact opposite of harsh, “watch the, fuck,” Ian hears a thump he recognizes instantly as Mickey’s fist slamming down on something, anything that’s within reach as his back arches towards Ian, “the injured cheek. Fuck,” it’s all breathy and Ian’s not sure if the buzzing in his ears is from being pistol whipped or if it’s from the presence of Mickey, the feel of skin, the heat of him. The sweat against Ian’s fingers, and the feel of his muscles clenching and unclenching as Ian works his tongue, figuring out his patterns, what makes him sigh, what makes him take a sharp breath, what makes him clench that fist, what makes him grunt and go rigid. 

The shorts are in a puddle at Mickey’s ankles, and Ian’s not sure how they’ll do the actual fucking part without, at the very least, causing a ripple effect through the pellet wounds. Shit, he probably should have thought about that before he dove in. But thinking when that ass is right there in his face, it’s impossible. Now that Mickey let him do it, fuck, it’s all he can think about. Almost all he can think about. He thinks about other things too. Sort of. Like Mickey’s voice, how it raises goosebumps up his spine. And Mickey’s hands. How they’re rough and scarred and tattooed and his fingernails are always chewed off into his nail-bed, but they’re somehow so fucking gentle whenever they slide across Ian’s face or his shoulder, or through his hair. His asscheek on the other hand, when they’re fucking and Mickey’s hands are clamped down on Ian’s ass, there’s nothing gentle about it, but it’s incredible. Like Mickey speaks through his fingertips, he always has. When he’s angry and they’re fisted up and making contact again and again with whatever his target is. When he’s frustrated and they clench into a fist and open again, and search for a cig or a light, or a beer, or shot of whiskey or a gun. When he’s talking and they’re flailing out at his sides in the pattern of his voice. Fuck, Ian loves those hands.

And right now, right now, he can feel the right hand landing squarely on his shoulder, and he can see the left one hanging off the stool, clamped around the leg of it, white knuckled as his body shudders under Ian’s touch and he emits a low grunted moan that fuck, shit, if he doesn’t stop right now, he’s not going to have to figure out how to fuck him while avoiding the injuries. A deep breath, trying to reel in that rope of orgasm in his belly, hands sliding up Mickey’s sides as he kisses a trail up his bare spine. Taking a moment to linger on every single knob. Breathing against the back of his head as his chest meets the layer of sweat on his overheated flesh. 

He’s not certain what he’s doing, but he’s certain what he wants. There’s a bottle of cooking oil next to the stove, and he’s not leaving, he’s got Mickey pliable and relaxed against him and he’s not chancing the option of moving locations and getting that cold-shouldered impatient ball of attitude that he gets on a regular basis. Not that he doesn’t like him that way, fuck, he loves Mickey no matter what mood he throws, but this Mickey. This one that is complete putty under his hands, this is the one he wants right now. 

His tongue already did enough work to get two fingers slicked up and slipped in his body without much resistance. But he waits, keeping a gentle pressure but no friction yet. Kissing his way across Mickey’s shoulders and down his back, resting his forehead against his spine as he slowly starts with the in and out motion. Being certain most of his body is leaned against Mickey’s left side, his free hand sliding over the perfect mound of flesh as he arches the two fingers as one inside Mickey and he hears a whispered, “fuck,” exit his lips. That’s Mickey for, ‘right there, don’t stop,’ so he doesn’t. Not until he’s worked a third finger in and begun the motion all over again, not until the sweat is making his black hair shiny and his soft flesh dewy. Not until his back is arched and he’s moving against Ian’s fingers instead of Ian moving his fingers, taking control of the pace and depth of Ian’s hand without taking hold of his wrist.   
Then he takes it away, he takes his hand away and hears Mickey’s breath catch, his neck flush. Taking him by the hips with both hands, remaining behind him, close enough that his erection keeps teasing Mickey’s uninjured cheek while he steers him towards the couch. Leaning forward to press lips to shoulder blade as he guides him to the cushions. 

Fuck, he has no idea how to take him without hurting his cheek, but he has to take him. Those fucking eyes are begging to be taken, and not just a quick fuck, they’re begging silently to be taken slowly. Shit, Ian’s not sure he can do that right now. His dick is already twitching and pulsating. He presses gently against Mickey’s lips. Part of him still expecting to be shoved away or have a punch connect with his jaw. 

Right hand slipping strands of damp black hair through fingers, left hand dropping down his chest, smooth and kissed with sweat, leaning into him until he lays back. There is no way to do this, there is no way to completely avoid the injury, but Mickey’s laying back on his shoulders, and now his hips are twisting to roll up against Ian’s pelvis, the injured side up as his head lands on the pillow. Knees bent, calves against Ian’s thighs, pulling him into position as Mickey’s hand reaches out, landing on the back of Ian’s head to guide him down, over him. 

Why the fuck didn’t he bring him upstairs to that ridiculously lush bed? It would have been easier. No balancing act involved. As his lips meet Mickey’s and his right hand slides under his head, giving him the support to remain against Ian’s lips while Mickey’s right hand slips down the length of Ian’s cock, lining up the entry point, and waiting. Stubborn fucker, he loves making Ian make the initial move. But fuck, when he presses into him, when he feels his length being overcome with warmth, when he feels Mickey’s body tense up and his breath choke off against his lips, when he feels the pressure of his fingertips against the back of his skull, he’s certain this is where he wants to die.

“Think we could plan this so that when the asteroid makes impact, we’re fucking?”

That impassioned breath becomes a snort and his hand that was clamped down on the back of Ian’s head taps his unbruised cheek as he pulls back, away from Ian’s mouth, “sure thing tough guy,” with that cocky smirk that Ian adores.

“World ending with a bang, shouldn’t we end it with a bang too?” he feels himself grin until he flinches from the web of pain radiating through his face.

“Clever,” his eyes roll, but not before Ian sees the twinkle in them, like the sun reflecting off the surface of the lake, each beam that bursts through the clouds brilliantly blinding before it’s stifled again by grey heavy storm clouds. 

————

“Could be a government conspiracy,” voice filtering in the open windows, the shadowed figure leans back, blowing smoke towards the black sky blanketed in grey clouds that have yet to spill over.

“Worldwide government conspiracy?” Mandy wonders, where she’s lying belly down, hands trailing over the water in the pool.

“Who the fuck is that?” Mickey wonders, hand on the glass door, ready to rip it open and storm out there to fuck whoever it is up.

“Hold on,” his fingers come down gently on Mickey’s wrist, “Mandy seems fine about whoever this is, give it a minute.”

“Yeah, well Mandy probably just wants to fuck him.”

“Don’t think it’s a him.”

“It’s a him,” his eyebrows are high when his gaze meets Ian’s, but then they knit together in confusion, “it looks like a him, don’t it?”  
“Not really,” scanning the outline of the figure that’s leaned back in the patio chair, front two legs off the ground, one leg propped on the table, the other in complete shadowed darkness. Ball cap, the jawline looks female, the long fingers that hand a joint over to Mandy look female, “she. Definitely she.”

“Look at it’s arms. He. Definitely he.”

The hand now empty of the joint, rises, links behind the head with the other one. The dim glow of the pool lighting, dancing with the movement of Mandy’s making, flashing across some pretty stringy arms but Mickey’s right, they look really fucking well maintained. But no, “she, look at her profile, that’s a chick nose.”

“That’s a nose been broken a time or two. He.”

“Voice could have gone either way.”

The ball cap is removed, revealing short messy blonde hair that’s probably not been shampooed in at least a week, “he,” Ian agrees, “definitely he.”

The reflection from the surface of the pool is almost eery as it splashes around the patio and floats away into the surrounding nothingness. Mandy’s head raises at the sound of the door sliding open, “took you fuckers long enough, fuck. Ian’s the ginger. Mickey’s the one with the permanent scowl.”

When the shadow person turns, a polite smile on the face, it’s definitely a she. She offers her hand, “Lou,” as they near. 

Ian shakes it first, it’s calloused and her grip is fucking painfully strong. Um, he then, “Ian.”

Mickey’s got one brow up as he scans the length of the dude’s body, his eyes lingering on the crotch area, “there ain’t a dick in those short-ass shorts. It’s a she.”

“Mick…”

But the woman snorts out a laugh, “you sure about that?”

“Fucker’s are short enough there’d at least be some ball hangin’ out, some old chewed up bubble gum stuck to your thigh.”

“Tiny useless brain bunched up against my seam,” she raises a bottle of tequila to her lips, taking a long chug as her eyes linger on Mickey’s face. Offering the bottle when she’s done, “straight from Mexico. So’s the weed. Take it easy.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Already fuckin’ told you. I’m Lou. And you’re squatting at my neighbor’s house.”

“Uh, you’d don’t exactly look like some rich bitch owns a fuckin’ million dollar joint on a beach.”

“Nah, I’m the poor cunt who grew up across the highway. These fuckers moved in, tore down Maki’s hundred year old homestead, built this ugly piece of modern shit, blocked my view of the lake, built up my fuckin’ beach into nothin’ more than a yacht yard. So this afternoon when I come out the chicken coop and stop to have a gander at the fuckin’ storm movin’ in, I see a damn Oshkosh sittin’ in the driveway and I think, ‘hm, don’t think that belongs to the fuckin’ Browns’, so I park my ass in the bushes over there and watch you three dipshits giving yourselves the grand tour before you’re dumb enough to split up and leave the low hanging fruit to her own devices all by her pretty little lonesome out here. Sippin’ some wine that cost more than my damn house, and sunbathin’ like the world ain’t endin’.”

“The fuck’re you doin’ here drinkin’ tequila and smokin’ weed actin’ like the world ain’t endin’ then?”

She shrugs, a smile giving way to a cocky smirk, “guess I’m actin’ like the world ain’t endin’ ‘cause I ain’t runnin’ that rat race, fightin’ a bunch of rich pieces of shit for a seat on a plane to the other side of the globe in hopes to live a few more days. Or runnin’ to the highest point to watch the fireworks show. Guess we’re all going to the same damn place in the end, only thing matters is how we get there.”

“The fuck were you sayin’ about a government conspiracy then?” Mickey’s interest has been piqued and he’s pulling out a chair at the table.

Ian sighs, sitting on the pool ledge beside Mandy, dangling his feet in the water, accepting a toke when she hands it over. Fuck, it’s smooth.

Lou snickers, taking another long swig of the golden liquid, setting it on the table and sliding it towards Mickey. She re-situates her ball cap, leans back into her clasped hands and plops her left leg on the table. Mickey’s eyes widen as they drop to scan over a prosthetic from the knee down, “think about it for a minute: population control. All it would take is a few power moves from a few power nations, worldwide panic and desperation. The amount of killin’ that’s happening all over the globe right now,” when her hand rises again to rub her ball cap against the back of her head, Ian’s eyes fall on a tattoo on her left forearm. A skull face, open mouthed with a leather bomber on.

“Navy?” he hears himself wonder.

Her eyes land on his, a twinkle of surprise as she nods.

He shrugs, “one of Frank’s old drinking buddies had a similar tattoo. He flew a bomber in Vietnam. Annapolis, that’s the Naval Academy?” handing the joint back to her.

“Sure is, got a military dream or somethin’ kid?”

He feels his cheeks flush, glad for the darkness around them, “sort of, yeah, I guess,” but he can’t look at Mickey now. End of the world aside, it’s not like he could leave now, or in a couple years when he graduates, even if West Point was option, he couldn’t leave Mickey behind. 

“Family tradition?”

“No. Just, I guess just a way to get out of the Southside. Um, why did you, um, isn’t the Navy super competitive for aviation?”  
“Not when you graduate the Academy top of your class.”

“So is that, um,” his eyes shift to the prosthetic, “never mind, that’s rude to ask.”

“This one ain’t as dumb as he looks,” she smirks, taking a long inhale, holding as her eyes linger on his, slowly releasing, admitting, “yeah. Lost that fucker in the mountains of Afghanistan. S’pose it’s still over there somewhere in the twisted metal, just another mistake our government ain’t willin’ to admit to making,” she shrugs, “guess it ain’t much different than my dad leavin’ his sanity in the jungle in ’68.”

The sound of his legs sloshing through the water and Mandy’s fingers playing a pattern on the sparkling surface, “so, uh, the land development ‘round here happen while you were gone or what?” Mickey’s voice has dropped the defensive and turned to nothing more than curiosity. 

“Most of it. Maki’s old place still standin’ when I leave for my fourth deployment, four months later come home on a med flight, spend some months bouncing between surgeries and rehab, come home to this shit having swallowed Maki’s place without leavin’ a crumb.”  
“Kinda like gentrification of the Southside,” Mandy sighs, sitting up now, sliding herself into the pool where it’s waist deep, “you going to teach me how to fuckin’ swim or what?”

————

“So, like, the fuckin’ power nations all put their damn heads together, plot this whole NASA announcement, sure. I can believe that shit, maybe they toss a couple nukes around and make it believable, say that like the asteroid burned up when it hit the atmosphere or fuckin’ Bruce Willis drilled that shit or some fuck. Fuckever, it takes care of population to an extent, sure, and no one has to take the blame for it. You think they’re really enough nukes in the world to create a nuclear winter? Then what? The world turns to ash and dust, blocks out the sun for a few years?”

Mandy is smiling, the sound of the water blocking out the debate raging at the patio table behind them. She’s on her back, watching the sky, limbs spread. Ian’s hand is on her lower back, not supporting her, just giving her the confidence to float. The calm joy in her face enough to raise a smile on Ian’s face. A simple motion, a simple task to float in a pool, but something she never got to experience before. Giving her body to the water around her and letting the constant churning of her life dull to nothing more than background noise under the whooshing in her ears.

“So even more population dies off, includin’ plant life, animal life, all that shit. But the fuck’s the deal with the whole Earth’s orbit shift?”

“Fuckin’ bullshit is what it is. All the rich fucks in this world are the ones ownin’ the industries and fuckin’ communications, they run the media, and can skew the facts however the fuck they want. Money talks through politicians and churches, upper echelon universities. You think these fuckin’ billionaires runnin’ the industries that are responsible for the bulk of our air pollution are actually going to step up and take responsibility for all the shit they’ve released into our atmosphere bein’ the cause of the global climate change? Uh uh, progress right? You think they give a fuck what their superyacht is doin’ to sea life?”

“So you sayin’ the world’s wealth is controllin’ enough shit behind the scenes to pull together some fuckin’ worldwide coverup…”

“While they’re hidin’ in their bunkers waitin’ for the ash to fall.”

“I don’t know, man, seems pretty fuckin’ deviant.”

“You’ve seen first hand what money does to a poor neighborhood. Pushing out the trash that can’t afford to live nowhere else. All ‘cause they want to pretty up an old building and make it more presentable for who? Their suburban friends who got tired of the ‘burbs? Fuck if I know, ain’t doin’ nothing more than pushing the impoverished further down the fuckin’ road, right?”

“So then what happens? After the dust settles and the world ain’t ended? Then what? All these rich fucks that lived in their underground bunkers for five years, reenter an Earth that looks like what?”

“Looks like rotted corpses and a fresh start.”

“What the fuck? You’re fuckin’ nuts, maybe it ain’t just your dad lost his mind in the line of duty.”

Fucking Mickey. But Lou just snorts out a laugh, “maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's Lou again. Yes, she's a different Lou than the one we saw in Mexico. She'll be a different Lou in The Circus as well. The thing about OCs is that when I take the Southsiders out of the Southside, the cast needs to rounded out. And reusing the same OCs (giving them a different backstory and different character arc) is easier than creating new ones. Lou, Charlie, Rocky, Martin, Rosa, Eduardo are all fully fleshed out in my head and they can provide the filler spots that I need whenever I need them. It's no different than Ms Bodnar when I keep them in Chicago. I think she's been in every Chicago work, sometimes the lady who plays piano with Mickey, sometimes the nosy neighbor who called the cops. 
> 
> So, there are definitely some holes in Lou's theory - but you're saying there's a chance?


	9. Just Dyin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little pillow talk, a little rock picking

Just Dyin’

 

“So, um,” Ian’s quiet, lying on his side facing Mickey in the dimness of the god-awful bedroom, the sound of the rain pattering the roof, wind whipping it against the glass panes of the windows from time to time. Thunder rolling in the air, lightning throwing electricity around and forcing the room to full brightness before it fades back into manmade light, “you think she’s right? About any of that conspiracy stuff?”

“Fuck if I know,” his hand is on the mattress between them, freckled fingers half bent against the sheet, practically forming a question mark with each finger, ‘hold me?’. Mickey sighs, reaching out to run his fingertip over those knuckles until his hand turns, palm up and intertwines the two. Fuck, the feel of Ian’s skin, it just makes Mickey want more of it. Sure, maybe he’s the only person who’s touched Mickey like he actually wants to touch him, not like it’s just out of necessity, and maybe that shit feels good. Even when it’s just this little stupid shit, “thing is, getting our hopes up, or even wanting to survive if her theory is right? Fuck, just sounds like a lot of fuckin’ work to me. What do we do? Find some bunker, kill every fucker in it, live off their supplies underground for five years, come back into the world and start it over our own way while fightin’ off all the other fuckers who’re comin’ out of their bunkers and tryin’ to start it their own way too?”

Tired smile, “either way, getting out of the city was right. If it’s all some conspiracy to control population, and it is just nuclear warfare, then they’ll demolish populated areas, right?”

“I guess,” his lower lip has found it’s way into his teeth, gnawing on it thoughtfully while he looks Ian over, wondering, “you wishin’ you’d stayed? Or talked your siblings into leaving?”

“No,” he’s quick to answer, “there was no talking Lip into anything. And Fi? I don’t know, she listens to him, as much as she pretends she doesn’t listen to him,” he shrugs, “I mean, I guess, if Lou’s theory is somewhat true, I guess if we survive, we can always go back and find them, or at least give them a proper burial.”

“Fuck, Ian, that’s,” his hand is clamping down tighter, “you’re a fuckin’ kid, man, you shouldn’t have to choose…”

“I choose you Mick. Every time. Every scenario. World ending or not, I choose to spend it with you. And there’s no talking some people out of some things, so I guess maybe the whole you reap what you sow thing works in this case. Sure, if we survive and we make our way back down to Chicago and find their bones, I’ll feel like shit about leaving them. Yeah, but I’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Or maybe I’ll wish I had been the bones in the basement if surviving is as hard as it sounds like it’d be. Shit, I still blink and see that guy from earlier, the empty eye socket. It’s like, I can’t get it out of my head, but you did what you had to do and I don’t feel differently about you and..” his voice sort of chokes off and he falls silent. Big eyes holding contact with Mickey’s while he breathes, “if survival is going to be brutal, then I need to be okay with being brutal when I have to be. And I need to be okay with you doing things that need to be done.”

He can’t respond vocally, not right away, but he feels himself nod. Truth is, he can’t stop seeing it either. That fuckin’ eyeball goo. Fuck. That was nasty. 

“But you need to stop thinking I’m a kid. You don’t think of Mandy as a kid, do you?”

“No, but she’s a crazy bitch who saw her first dead body when she was seven, so…”

“I’m not a kid either Mick. You’re only seventeen, so technically…”

“Eighteen in like two days or some shit.”

“Two days?”

“If I knew what day it was today, I could tell you for sure, and if you promise not to make some big stupid deal of it.”

“Or I could just ask Mandy,” he smiles that smug smile that makes Mickey want to punch him or kiss him. 

He chooses the latter, “c’mere.”

————

The smell of thunderstorm and lake water is blowing in across the floor, wafting over the surfaces of the furniture and tickling through Mickey’s nostrils; the same way Ian’s gentle sleep breath is tickling the back of his neck. He never did fall asleep. Maybe it was the Valium laced nap he took for the bulk of the day, maybe it was the tequila, maybe it was that chick talkin’ about the end of the world being a farce. Maybe it was the eyeball goo. Or makin’ Ian make the choice to leave Chicago. 

Fuck. 

He pulls himself to seated when the sun outside the window has risen beyond the point of splashing colors across the surface of the waves just past the sandy beach. Now it’s throwing golden glitter through the crest of every wave. 

Running a hand across Ian’s temple, letting his fingertips feel fully every strand of fiery hair before he leans in to kiss his forehead. That bruise is taking up most of his cheek and the cut on his cheekbone is scabbed nicely, won’t hurt much longer anyway. 

He watched Mandy about an hour ago tip-toeing her way through the long beach grass beside the sandy trail down to more sand before it becomes a blue-green expanse of fresh water. He ain’t walkin’ through that grass, shit looks pokey. He stays to the sand, letting is rub along his bare feet and thinkin’ it feels like a tiny massage. Until he gets to the edge of the water where the sand is wet and waves are gently reaching out to pull each little grain and each little pebble back into the water only to toss it back to shore. 

His hand rises to cast a shadow over his eyes, and he’s wishing he had grabbed a hat. Scanning for his sister, finding her in the water, about knee deep, leaned over a ways down the beach, reaching for something on the sandy bottom. She’s got some kind of airy lookin’ dress on and a ridiculously floppy sunhat shielding her face and eyes. He’d laugh his ass off at the image if it didn’t make him think of that photo of Mom. The one from when she was young, a rare trip to the Black Sea with her mother. 

“Yo bitchwit, the fuck you doin’?” his voice crashes against the surface of the lake and echoes down the beach in a broken sentence of water and beaten rocks washed down to pebbles tumbled into sand. 

She doesn’t hear a damn word. He smiles, taking the steps into the water that’s warm and mostly clear, some weeds and grass, some leaves floating around and lying on the floor. A few rocks here and there underfoot. There’s a bunch of white and grey birds floating on a waft of air, cawing out some fuckin’ irritatin’ noises. Some of them floating, bobbing along with the motion of the lake. 

Fuck, the water feels good rubbing along his ankles, pulling the sand out from under his feet. He wonders if he stands in the same place for long, if it’ll eventually burry his feet. He starts walking the length of the beach, ankle deep water, watching the movement of the fluid as he walks through it. It’s pretty fuckin’ cool what it does to the sand on the bottom, almost like a desert striped by wind lying under trillions of gallons of water. 

When the wind blows it smells like rain and it’s the first time the wind has been damp all summer. A deep breath through his nose and his entire body relaxes. Fuck, he gets it. He gets why rich people eat up real estate along shorelines and coastlines. This, right here, this is a feeling that can’t be replicated in a city or on a mountain, a ski resort, or a lodge on the plains of Wyoming. 

It’s the sloshing of the water changing patterns near her that finally grabs her attention. Head turning in his direction, a calm smile on her face, she almost looks happy. And all the shit he wanted to rib her for, the dress probably thinner than the worn sheets they’re used to sleeping in, but probably cost upwards of a hundred dollars; it all falls into a silence, a type of silence that only exists when the waves are reaching through the sand and the annoying white and gray birds are conversing over the wind.

“Beach glass,” she smiles, the water throwing reflection of the sun at her irises and he wonders of all the things he’s seen his sister; he’s never before seen her happy.

————

“That one’s just concrete,” Lou reaches out and lifts one of Mandy’s rocks out of the pile she organized on the patio table, “but you found a couple here that’re worth keepin’. Slag,” running a calloused finger over a rough black rock, “probably came off a freighter at some point. Burnin’ coal. Got some granite,” sliding three rocks off to the side, they’re pink, red, striped, and splotched with colors, “jasper,” the smooth tan one, “but this one,” she slides a rock off the table, looking closer at it and smiling at Mandy, “Petoskey stone. Once upon a time in an era long ago,” smirking as she’s setting the rock on the table, “these were free swimming larvae. Back when Michigan lived on the equator and this lake was a salty and shallow sea, these babies used to push themselves around the water on hairlike tentacles. They’d drop to the bottom, anchor themselves and divide. Build themselves an exoskeleton for protection. Then the tectonic plates shifted, pushed Michigan north to the 45th parallel, these little critters fossilized. These little eyes of the stone, these were the mouths of the coral. Big glacier freed a bunch of the rocks, smoothed them over and slide them around throughout the state. Now you’re lookin’ at one that’s been worn down by hundreds of years in the lake. Some that have stayed mostly buried somewhere on land just look like dried coral.”

“Well ain’t that interstin’?” Mickey snorts.

“Depends on what you call inerestin’,” she snorts back, tugging her dirty ball cap off her head, running the back of it along her hairline as she scans him over, “look like you ain’t done much sleepin’ since we parted ways.”

He shrugs, eye contact faltering, taking a moment to thumb at his nose and watch the lake that looks like it carries on for an eternity on the horizon, “rich people beds,” he mumbles as an excuse.

“Oh yeah? Interestin’.”

“Fuck you,” but it’s not every intimidating. Fuck, did Mickey lose his edge? Ian exits the house with a dopey smile on his face and serving tray, four mugs of steaming coffee balanced on it. 

Mickey feels his lips lift, watching the gangly idiot walking across the patio, announcing, “so since rich people don’t have Bisquick, we’ll have to settle for toast but it’s twelve grains and no preservatives so at least we’ll be nice and healthy when we die.”

The tray is being set on the table, his eyes are lingering on the rock collection and his hand is sliding across Mickey’s lower back. If he kisses him right now, he’s going to have to punch him. That’s it, he might have lost his edge but that don’t mean he’s okay with fuckin’ PDA or some fuck. 

Mandy’s got her eyes on the coffee, Lou’s sayin’ something about a real breakfast if they want to come over to raid the chicken coup, and Ian’s lips are meeting Mickey’s temple and he can’t feel a damn thing beyond that. 

————

“Why ain’t you in the water?” 

Jesus, this fucking woman, she must not have much to do, “why ain’t you preparin’ for the world to end?”

“Ain’t got much to prepare for,” she shrugs, plopping herself down next to him in the sand. One knee bent, the leg that ends in a fake leg flat on the ground, “just dyin’.”

“Just dyin’, huh? You don’t think you’ll survive the government conspiracy?”

“Nah. Wouldn’t want to.”

“Why’s that?”

She sighs heavily, face turning to look at him. Studying his expression as the pattern of Ian’s laughter and Mandy’s cursing drifts across the open water, breaks through the sound of the squawking birds and tumbling sand, “I’ve seen what people will to do in order to survive when there ain’t a soul out there gives a shit whether or not they do. Ain’t gotta see it again to know I don’t wanna do it again.”

There’s something fucked up in her gaze, kinda looks the way that storm cloud hovering over the lake all day yesterday did. Fuck, he wants to know more, but when he blinks and an empty rust colored eye socket flashes in his mind, he decides instead to admit, “I’ve got buck-shot holes in my asscheek, I ain’t takin’ any chances.”

“Buck-shot, huh?” hand sliding up to her temple, removing a joint from behind her ear, “guess the asscheek is the best place for that,” she sparks it up, takes a long inhale, and passes it over.

Watching him silently as he takes his turn, “fuck,” sighing with the exhale, “never had anything so fuckin’ smooth.”

When he offers it back to her, she waves it off, “keep that one. It’ll help,” eyes lingering just beneath his, where he’s certain the clouds are darkening as the day drags on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after a weekend of writing, this is where I'm stuck. Sounds like we want survival. Thing about survival is that weathering the storm is only the beginning. It's surviving the aftermath of the storm that would get brutal. 
> 
> We've built up the first scene, added the first OC, and considered a conspiracy theory that it's all just a farce. Hmmm...
> 
> Another thing about writing Mickey that's fun, his dialogue patterns are very similar to patterns of speech in Michigan - so it's easy for me write :)


	10. Kill Shots And Cub Cadets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Might as well get to know this version of Lou a little better if we want to keep her around.

Killshots And Cub Cadets

 

“The fuck’re you doin’?” Mickey wonders, trudging slowly up the rickety back steps of the worn down house across the road from the mansion they’ve been staying in for a few days now. Deciding to heal some of the wounds before pressing on. 

“Shut the fuck up,” she answers out of the corner of her lips, leaning into her rifle propped on the porch rail, “sit the fuck down and keep your trap shut. If you can,” she snickers.

He slides into the aluminum framed lawn chair with a broken strap next to her. Eyes following the barrel of her rifle, drifting over green grass spotted with fruit trees, and a few seemingly randomly placed vegetable plots. The chicken coop borders the tree-line and fuck, fresh eggs, those fuckers are good. 

“Seems rifle season don’t open ’til Fall, but ain’t no DNR ‘round now to tell me not to shoot.”

Mickey scans the trees, so many different shades of green. How the fuck can so many different hues of the same fuckin’ color exist in nature? Beyond the trunk of some kind of really fat fucking brown barked tree, he catches movement. Sleek reddish brown fur, white belly and black nose. It’s got antlers that make Mickey think of that stupid book that Mandy liked. That one with Imogene or fuckever her name was. 

“Six-pointer.”

“Fuck that mean?”

“Got six prongs.”

“Huh?”

“Eight’s better, be nice and meaty in a few more months. But, fuck it. We ain’t living that long,” she sighs, takes a shot like it’s nothing more than releasing a breath. 

Mickey watches the sleek animal take off, with a startle and long graceful strides. But only a few before it falls. 

He feels kinda sick watching her skin it, and gut it. Up to her elbows in blood, some of it soaked into the brim of her ball cap where she keeps tugging it off her head, running it along her hairline before pushing it back into place. It ain’t like the fish. 

“Fuckin’ hot out,” she groans, “gotta move quick if you don’t want spoiled meat. Take this back to the house, do somethin’ other than stand there lookin’ like you’re gonna blow chunks.”

“I ain’t gonna blow chunks,” he denies, but the scent of death is, well, it’s the scent of death and it’s fuckin’ hot out. He takes the huge chunk of meat she’s offering, “Jesus, fuck, the fuck is this?”

“Uh, deer meat,” she’s leaned back on her heals and he realizes there’s a lot about prosthetic legs that he don’t understand. 

“You still got your knee?”

“The fuck it look like?”

“Looks like you still got your knee.”

“Looks that way don’t it?”

“You able to answer a question without being a bitch about it?”

“You able to stop asking questions any fuckin’ time soon and bring the tenderloin and backstraps into the house?”

He can feel his brows rising as her voice carries on, and he can see her brows rising. Stand-off. But this meat is kinda heavy. And smells like fuckin’ raw meat that’s about to bake in the sun.

“Where’s your merry band of Southside trash anyway?”

“Fuck you. Fuck am I s’posed to do with this shit when I get to the house?”

“Step 1: open the back door. Step 2: walk inside. Step 3: shout: Billy, got a job for ya. Step 4: leave.”

“The fuck’s Billy?”

“My dad. Now make like a bread truck.”

“Huh?”

“Move your pellet-filled ass.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Don’t care. Move.”

————

The house is small, rustic looking. Everything in it made out of wood. ‘Cept the windows. Even the counters are wood. Like actual wood. Cabinets are bare wood, floor is scuffed and worn wood. The walls are half wood, half-drywall. The drywall’s hand painted, a scene of the beach across the way, must have been before the mansion moved to town. Town? Village? Unincorporated? It sure in the fuck ain’t a city. There ain’t even a grocery store. Just a gas station. Not even a traffic light. Maybe a stop sign or two. 

Looks like the only option for a place to set this, is, well, a slab of wood, “yo Billy, got a job for ya,” he hollers it, but it don’t seem to need hollerin’. The skinny dude with unwashed grey blonde hair and and an unruly beard is in a wooden rocking chair, facing the kitchen. He’s got a rifle leaned up against the table beside him and a cigarette smoldering in the ash tray on the window sill. Window open, breeze off the lake swirling the smoke through the screen. 

“You, uh, Billy?”

He’s got a newspaper on his lap and a few beer cans, empty and scattered on the floor around him, “who’re you?”

“My name’s Mickey. Guess I’m a friend of…”

“Valentine? That you?”

“No, I’m Mickey,” he says it louder this time, thinking the guy must be hard of hearing. He looks rough as fuck. Like she was probably right, his sanity been long gone and he don’t know if he’s comin’ or goin’.

“Valentine?” he’s looking at Mickey without seeing him. Kind of like there’s a ghost standing between the guy and Mickey, and the ghost is all the guy can see, “Valentine? Did you find her yet? Did you find my baby girl? They lost her, they said they lost her in the mountains. Did you find her yet Valentine?”

“Sorry, uh, think I got the wrong house,” he starts taking steps back. Until his hand is against the screen door, shoving it open and backing out into the sunshine and hot air. Fuck. 

Sliding a pack of smokes out of his pocket, lighting it up on the way back to the woods. Fuckin’ chickens are making a racket. Annoying fuckin’ birds, but fuck, those eggs. Normally Mickey don’t give a shit about eggs, cereal’s cheaper and easier, but fresh picked and cracked over the stove, snappin’ away in the hot butter and turning white right away. Flipping out of the pan when the yolk is just right to be runny but not like a giant yellow booger. 

“Coulda told me your old man’s sittin’ in there with a rifle and he’d think I was Valentine or some fuck.”

Her expression falls immediately, sitting back on her heals again and watching him as he nears, “what’d he say?” it’s defensive and breathy, she’s getting to her feet.

“Nothin’ really. Just asked if I found his baby girl. Called me Valentine. He like a child mol…”

“Fuck,” she’s to her feet, stalking through the woods like she got two normal legs, “fucker. He was fine this mornin’. He was fuckin’ fine. Fuck,” there’s blood dripping down one arm and splattering randomly in the grass beside her as she walks. Sensing the slowly moving stream of rust colored ooze, she flicks her hand in the air, sending droplets splashing against a tree before she wipes her hand on her shirt. 

Mickey has no fucking clue what he’s s’posed to do, so he just follows her. Silently. Mandy and Ian were out swimming again, and it ain’t like he’s ready to try filling his assholes with water, fuck knows what kind of little bacteria fish things are swimming around in that lake. Little bacteria shit pushing itself around on hairlike tentacles and turning into rocks in a few thousand years or some fuck. Either way, that shit could fuck a person up. Start eatin’ away at his asscheek first, spread into his bloodstream and kill him painfully. Fuck that shit. Even if Lou’s theory is right, well, it ain’t like he’s gonna find a fuckin’ bunker and hide for five years, but it probably ain’t that bad a way to die. Just sit back and watch it ’til it’s close enough to strangle you. Wait, how would that work? If you ain’t close enough to the blast to be killed instantly? Would it end in radiation? How long would that take to die from? ‘Cause that sounds fuckin’ brutal.  
Shit. Maybe he should go swimming.

He watches as she yanks the door open, leaving a print of sticky moist blood. He darts inside before it can swing shut and he’d have to touch that shit. 

“Billy, got a deer needs cleaning.”

“Valentine?” he’s still in the chair, but now the smoke is to his lips.

“Billy, I told you not to smoke inside anymore. Remember last time, you lit the chair on fire? That’s why we ain’t got a recliner anymore.”

“Did you find her?” his eyes are focused on the space where Lou’s face is, but he ain’t lookin’ at her face either.

“Fuck,” she sighs under her breath, taking slow measured steps towards the old man in the chair. Fuck, he can’t be much different age than Terry, but he looks rough. She crouches down in front of him, her hand all brown and red and orange lands on his knee, “Billy, I’m gonna need you to focus for a minute, alright?”

“Valentine? That you?”

“Fuck,” dropping her head, letting it roll back and forth a few times, loosening her neck like a fighter about to step into the ring. Squaring off her shoulders with a deep breath and tilting to look at his face, “yeah, yeah it’s me. It’s Valentine.”

He sighs relief, his hand shaking as it reaches out to cup her face, “I almost didn’t recognize you Valentine. Did you find her? Did you find Anna?”

“Yeah. I did. I found her. She’s livin’ in Tulsa now. Got a family of her own. Raisin’ two kids, we’re gonna go see ‘em in a couple weeks, remember?”

“She was lost in the mountains. They said she was lost in the mountains. Her plane went down. Got shot down.”

“Sure did Billy. But you know, she’s tough, she made it out. She’s livin’ in Tulsa now, remember?”

“Tulsa?”

“Yeah. Tulsa.”

“Good for her.”

“We’ll see her real soon Dad, real soon,” she pats his knee, and his hand with a smoke pinched between his fingers, lingers on her face.

“You look different Valentine.”

“Don’t we all Billy?”

A sad smile rises, “we do, we sure do.”

————

She’s going at the deer corpse with ferocity now. Mickey ain’t sure if it’s to beat the heat or to beat her life, but she’s working up a sweat and half-panting by the time she sits back on her heals again. He wants to ask, but he’s afraid to ask. When her face tilts up, gaze landing on his and holding, he blurts, “who’s Valentine? And who’s Anna?”

“Fuck, I ain’t draggin’ you into the lunacy of an old man. You’re just a kid,” this time her heals fail and her butt hits the forest floor as her hat is tugged off, arm dragged over her forehead. Smearing dirt and blood throughout the beaded sweat. 

“Not really,” he sighs, leaning his shoulder against a tree and removing a smoke from his pocket.

“You get any sleep yet?”

He shrugs.

“Fuck,” reaching for the cig after he takes the first drag. He don’t really want to hand it over to those nasty hands, but it don’t look like he’s got a choice, “how old are you?”

“Eighteen. Uh, now. That’s why my band of Southside trash ain’t with me. Got kicked outta the house. Think they’re tryin’ to figure out how to make a cake or some fuck after they’re done swimmin’,” he watches the toe of his boot scuff at the dirt instead of meeting her eyes, “doubt rich people got cake mix layin’ around in their pantry.”

“Nah, they got some Mexican housekeeper nanny does all the cookin’ from scratch.”

“That where you get your tequila and weed?”

“Got a different connection for that shit,” she hands the smoke back over. Silence blankets them for a moment. Well, silence like the sound of the woods. ’Til she sighs, “Anna’s my baby sister. She drowned ‘bout twenty years ago.”

“Why’s he think she was in the mountains?”

“Fuck if I know, guess when you lose your mind in combat and then have a family and build a life outside combat…” she trails off, loses eye contact, takes a deep breath that shudders, watching Mickey’s boots instead of his face, “it was me. Got shot down. He’s just meshing the stories.”

“Who’s Valentine then?”

“Valentine was my mom. It’s my middle name, but she was with Anna the day she drowned,” she shrugs, “guess she was never the same after. But whatever, it’s all just,” she waves it off in the air between them, re-situating beside her deer carcass and getting back to work, “so eighteen, huh?”

“Yeah,” he slides down the surface of the tree, his sore ass meeting the ground and his legs spread out in front of him, “guess I thought I’d see eighteen from behind bars.”

“Why’s that?”

“Fucked for life. Juvie twice already. Just kinda figured,” he pauses to take a drag, “I don’t know. Guess if the world wasn’t endin’ I’d still be sittin’ at home waitin’ for my old man to come home from this weekend’s run. Pushin’ drugs and guns,” he shrugs, “fuckin’ Gallagher though, keeps tryin’ to convince me I got potential or some fuck.”

She snickers, “ain’t puppy love cute?”

“Fuck you.”

“Eh, at least you’re gonna die knowin’ someone loves ya,” she smirks, “how long you banned from the mansion for?”

“I guess ’til dinner.”

“Alright. Help me haul the rest of this meat in. You can come to town with me. Get a fuckin’ cake mix.”

“How you goin’ to convince them to throw out somethin’ they worked all day on?”

“Ain’t like they got google over there to tell ‘em how to bake a cake from scratch. Whatever they attempt, it’ll fail. And they ain’t gonna feed you failed cake. Kind of think they might love you enough to spare you that.”

————

“Fuck is that?”

“Transportation. Get in,” motioning towards the heavy duty wagon thing that’s strapped to a riding mower.

“You ‘spect me to sit in a wagon with half a dead deer and what? Ride to the store getting dusted? You mowin’ the ditch all the way there? The fuck you don’t have a truck sittin’ right over there?”

She snorts out a laugh, “you see a mowin’ deck on this? Three DUI's says I can’t drive the truck, or fly anymore, but hey the world’s endin’, guess it don’t matter. Fuck, old Cubby here uses less gas and I fucked with the engine enough that it’ll get us there faster anyway.”

“Faster than the truck?”

“Faster than walkin’,” she smirks, settling on the seat of the mower, “get in or stand there all day with nothin’ to do but stare at your mansion on the beach longingly with your thumb up your ass. Makes no never-mind to me.”

“Why you bringin’ deer meat?”

“It’s called bartering. Somethin’ you might wanna learn if you do by some fucked up chance of Fate survive the apocalypse.”

“I know what bartering is.”

“What ya got to barter? Might want to learn a skill or two.”

“You really live so backwoods around here that you work off a bartering system.”

“Nah, not really, guess when you live small town enough that all ten year-rounders know every detail of your life, and know you’re broke as fuck and livin’ off the land and can’t pay for shit, they’re wiling to barter.”

“Really only ten people live here year-round?”

She shrugs, pinching the tip of her joint and tucking it behind her ear, “maybe more like twenty families. But we ain’t really that far out of town, just seems that way.”

“You can’t fly anymore?”

“This fuckin’ twenty questions or a trip to the damn store? Get in the wagon.”

“You really just drive around on a lawn mower ‘cause you ain’t legally allowed to drive? Is that some kind of real way around the law or…”

“Guess the locals ain’t gonna turn me in for drivin’ a mower around, but when the second DUI sinks an old hot rod in the marina, the third one takes out the newest mansion down the road; maybe makes me local legend, maybe makes me dangerous enough to run over someone’s birddog or kid,” she shrugs, “either way, s’pose they think I can’t do a whole fuck ton of harm with old Cubby here.”

She motions towards the black plastic wagon with fat tires again. Guess it ain’t like there’s anyone around to see this shit. Whatever this hillbilly bullshit store is, gotta be better than sittin’ around waiting for Thelma and Louise over there to burn down the McMansion on the beach. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, “alright,” climbing over the edge and settling himself down with the meat that is at least wrapped in white paper now, “let’s get fuckin’ on with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me feels weird to post the chapters as I write them, part of me thinks that since it's an adventure that I don't know what I'm doing with, I might as well feed off some input along the way. 
> 
> Seems like Lou has a lot of skills that could come in handy in a post-apo world. But she also has a lot of demons and a lot of baggage. Did I name her dad Billy for a reason? Or am I just too lazy to change it? Hmm...
> 
> I guess a post-apo world would take a huge cast. A huge cast with varying skill sets, probably some weirdos along the way. That is - if we find someone with a bunker and go underground for a few years until the dust settles. This is shaping up to be a seriously long work - or just a huge mess. Whatever, might as well test some writing skills :)
> 
> Our Chicago crew are still teenagers. Lou is at least thirty. I think every country kid knows at least one person that uses their riding mower for much more than mowing the lawn... oh, the things you miss out on when you grow up in a city!


	11. A Seaplane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex on the beach, and a joyride.

A Seaplane

 

“So? How was it?” Ian wonders, his arms lax around Mickey’s shoulder, a fucking gazillion stars behind his head and a moon that’s barely visible in the blanket of blinking, and twinkling lights. 

“Uh, it was, fuckin’, what? Ain’t I s’posed to ask you that?” his brows are high in the darkness and Ian is glad for the reflection of lights off the lake so he can see his expression.

“No, not the fucking. Wait? You’re supposed to ask me how it was?”

“Well, yeah, I mean,” embarrassment is sneaking in around the edges, “uh, first time with, uh…”

“A dick in my ass?”

“Yeah fuckface. That.”

A smile spreads as his gaze lingers on Mickey’s perfect face that’s even more perfect in the night-time’s glow. Somehow the embarrassment is turning into concern and Ian knows he should answer before some type of insecurity can rise, “you, um, top often?”

That was stupid. And it’s written all over Mickey’s face that it was stupid. Shit, now he’s pulling away. Ian tightens his grip, clamping his legs tighter around MIckey’s hips. The jerk actually was just laying here kissing him. Just kissing. Until their mouths were tired and their lips were tender and he was lingering. 

“Wait,” hands flat on Mickey’s shoulder-blades, “that was stupid. Let me try again. But don’t laugh.”

“What?”

“Don’t laugh shithead.”

“Why the fuck…”

“You make a great fucking top Mick. Because you’re caring and gentle and you got me there before you went there. And that’s pretty fucking selfless, right?”

“Fuck you,” it’s only bright enough to see a pink blush creeping across his cheeks before Ian pulls his head down to smash into his mouth. 

“Again?” he mumbles against Mickey’s tongue as it darts out to slide along Ian’s lower lip.

“Mmmphh,” he’s too busy to respond, busy driving into Ian’s mouth with an avalanche of passion that’s more powerful than any asteroid hurling itself towards Earth could ever be; as they lie on a blanket in the sand listening to the lake gently lapping shore, watching shooting stars between rounds of fucking, smoking cigs and sharing beers. 

“Looks like it,” he finally responds when his erection brushes against Ian’s thigh, he pulls back to slide fingers though his hair and watch his face. 

“Yeah,” smiling, wondering at all the fucking scenarios he’s thought his life would end, this was never one of them, “yes. Fuck me,” tightening his grip on the back of his head to guide lips to lips again. His hand drops, finding Mickey’s perfect cock. A couple delicate strokes of his hand to spread the remaining lube around before lining up and giving a nod against Mickey’s lips. 

He’s slow, pushing into Ian gently, knowing there’s a tender surge of overstimulation running through his body. He’s lingering over his lips, but not brushing against at this moment, giving Ian the space and time to gasp and adjust, breathe. His eyes flick open and land immediately on Mickey’s. An intensity he’s never seen before, hand sliding over Ian’s cheek, nudging against his nose until Ian tilts his head back. Lips to lips but he doesn’t dive in, not yet, first he admits, for the first time without being prompted by Ian’s idiotic confessions, “I love you.”

It rips a tingle from the tip of Ian’s toes through his core and against Mickey’s lips when they part and slide over Ian’s mouth, his tongue this time traveling Ian’s upper lip before meeting his. He doesn’t give him time to respond and it doesn’t matter, Mickey already knows. He knows Ian loves him. 

————

The last pulse of orgasm is still tingling it’s way through Ian’s body when Mickey’s head meets his chest and his sigh spreads in an easy burst of air across his sweat slicked skin. 

“It was good, Ian. Best birthday I’ve ever had.”

He doesn’t hide the grin that rises, tilting to press his lips against Mickey’s sweat slicked hair, knowing Mickey hates that shit, or pretends to hate it, “what do you think we’d be doing if we were still at home, and you know, the world wasn’t ending?”

“Same old shit,” he shrugs, “probably beg off this weekend’s run. Wait ’til Dad and my brothers were gone, ban Mandy from the house and find some lame ass excuse to get you over there for a night.”

Fuck, the grin is going to split his face in half, “you’d want to spend it with me, even if we weren’t just, um, I guess…”

“Stuck together for it?” his head rises, eyes twinkling with the reflection of a million things he’ll probably never say, “yeah. S’pose so.”

He’s got a smile on his face that Ian’s never seen before. And he wants to stare at it all night, but Mickey ducks, nudging his nose until Ian surrenders his lips again. And that’s okay too, that’s more than okay too.

————

The air rising off the lake is cool compared to the sun burning the sand around them. Waking up with the scent of Mickey mingling with the water, sun-scorched Earth and the breeze blowing green all over the place. Ian never realized that green was a scent. There’s no other way to describe it. All the green stuff around them just mixing together and getting hurled around on the wind. 

He lies flat on his back, watching a few puffy white clouds passing along overhead. Listening to Mickey’s sleep pattern shifting into wake. He has two weeks left to memorize that pattern. 

His hand slides through damp black hair and Mickey grunts. But he doesn’t move. The heat of the air around them can’t compete with the heat of Mickey against his side. It’s a type of heat that Ian is certain could warm him through to the bone even on the coldest winter night. 

When Ian shifts, Mickey startles. Tilting up on his elbow with anxious brows and widened eyes. Blinking hard, first at Ian, then at their surroundings, his hand has landed on his chest and his breath is coming out hard and fast. 

“You’re alright,” Ian reminds him gently.

His eyes that sparkle more than the sunrise on the lake land on Ian’s face again, they’re half wild, half tame and he darts into Ian’s lips haphazardly. Maybe to remind him where he is. Or who he is. Searching the inside of Ian’s mouth while his hands search the expanse of his flesh. When he finds whatever it is he’s looking for, it’s like a wave slowly retreating back into the lake. Pulling away from shore and taking tiny specks of sand with it. 

Ian rises as Mickey starts to back away, clinging to his lips. Pressing against him as he sits up, tugging him close. Not caring, not caring about their surroundings. 

They could be in the middle of a crowd or completely alone in a world empty of souls. He doesn’t care. If he is Mickey’s center when Mickey wakes anxious and his mind is still in juvie or maybe waiting for his father’s fist, then Ian will be his center. And he will hold that center together when the rest of it is moving too fast to control. 

His hands slide down the length of Mickey’s bare back, the sheet they pulled off the bed to protect them in the night, is bunched around his hips and Ian’s fingers are wandering down the cleft of his ass. Mickey responds exactly how Ian hoped, by angling against him. Giving him access. 

“Fuck,” it shakes against Ian’s lips and snakes down his throat as he presses the first finger inside. 

Jesus Christ, bottoming was incredible. And it’s not like Ian has much experience with sex in general, but he is absolutely undoubtedly convinced that there is nothing better in this world than that very first moment of their bodies joining together. He’s also absolutely undoubtedly convinced that there is nothing more incredible in this entire universe than Mickey Milkovich. He doesn’t need experience to tell him that, to show him that, to prove that. He just needs more. More Mickey in every possible way, every possible position and scenario and yeah, waking up to fuck him on the beach, that’s a pretty fucking good one. 

The lake is churning and the wind is blowing, the sand is being pounded against shore and dragged back to the lake. The gulls are squawking as they soar through the different layers of air. Different layers of heat. Ian knows that, he can hear all of it, but his senses are honed in on Mickey and Mickey only. The way his muscles flex in a pattern agains him and around him. The way his mouth just sort of hangs there open against Ian’s when he bottoms out. The way his hands press and clench and flatten out against Ian’s back. The whispered curse words that start stringing out of his mouth against Ian’s when the thrusts grow deeper, faster. 

As he’s rocking into Mickey he’s feeling that his ass is sore and he’s not sure how Mickey does this, and makes it look so fucking easy. Fuck, it felt good, but he’s going to feel it all day and he’s certain when he shits later he’s going to think it didn’t feel that good. But with Mickey pressed against his chest and his erection rubbing along Ian’s belly, the memory of the way it felt inside his body, he knows he wants it again. Just, in a few days. After this first round has worn off. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe by then. 

He brings his knees up to hold Mickey tight against him and slides his hand up his back, cradling his head, keeping him near. Kisses deep and heavy. Starving for air but neither of them gives a single shit. If it’s possible to suffocate themselves on each other’s kisses, then that’s what they’ll do, right here with the early morning sun lingering on the horizon and starting to stretch across the glossy surface of the water. 

When Mickey’s breath catches and his fingers press dents into Ian’s back, he knows he’s close. He knows it’s time to grip his hips and roll into his rhythm. To provide the counter-pressure and take advantage of every single millimeter of contact. 

Losing the control and letting Ian thrust as his body tenses and tightens and his breath halts. Ian opens his eyes, peering at Mickey’s face with his lids pressed shut tight. His lips parted just slightly, face tilted towards the sky. He’s giving Ian his neck. And fuck, Ian takes it. Layering it with kisses as his Adam’s Apple bobs under his lips. His entire body going rigid as a shudder rips down his spine and he becomes a puddle of human while the last pulses of Ian’s orgasm subside. 

He flops to his back, taking Mickey with him. Fingers though his hair as he tucks his head under Ian’s chin. 

“Fuck, Gallagher.”

“Morning to you too,” leaning until a kiss meets his slippery hair. And his sweat-slicked hair tickles Ian’s nose. 

————

The sand is a tiny massage on his bare feet, running on the shore where the water meets the land and leaves it permanently wet. Something he never thought he’d do, run barefoot on the beach as the sun’s yellow fingers spread wide across a lazy summer sky.   
He loses himself in the scent and the sounds. Following the shoreline, taking note of a Bald Eagle soaring over the pines bordering the next cove. Fuck, those are some big birds. He stops on the next outlet, the shore beyond is rocky, dotted by boats moored to docks. His eyes scan the spiderweb of planks. Wondering how much of a fortune is wrapped up in these toys, how many meals that kind of money could have provided for his family. Fuck, it wouldn’t take very many of those boats to pay off the mortgage and get cousin Patrick off Fiona’s back. 

His gaze stops on a seaplane. Tied to a dock on the outermost end of what he supposes is the marina, bobbing in the waves. There’s a figure on the wing. Lying on her back, one leg draped off the edge, swaying with boredom or maybe the rhythm of thought. Ian watches in profile as her hand rises, joint pinched between her fingers, taking a long toke and blowing the exhale skyward. 

He scales the fence, walks the maze of docks, ignoring how much money is spent on wants that will never be needs. Walking the wooden planks, listening to the waves making their gentle song against the cement footings. He stops when he’s near enough, when he knows she’s heard him and her head is turning. She nods at him, calm and uncaring. 

“What, um, what are you doing up there?”

“What’s it look like?”

“I guess it looks like you’re smoking a joint.”

“Then that’s what I’m doing. What are you doing? Running down the beach ‘cause you gotta stay in shape for the big event?”

“No, just, um, I guess I just thought I’d never run on the beach before. So, I, guess, I…”

“Shut the fuck up and climb up here.”

He eyes the plane, tying to decide his best course.

“Just pick one. Worst that can happen? Slip, crack your head open, and die. I’ll tell your butt buddy you love him.”

“Wow, that’s generous.”

“Ain’t like it’ll matter in two weeks.”

“What do you think, um, happens, you know, when we die?”

“Fuck if I know. Ain’t done it yet.”

“You’ve never thought about it?”

“Sure. Come up with the same answer every time. When we die, we die.”

“Deep,” he sighs, pulling himself up with the help of her offered hand.

“As a well. Guess when you see it happen, all you can decipher in the end is hope it’s quick. And it don’t just start a new life over. ‘Cause who the fuck wants to do this shit twice?”

“You believe in reincarnation?”

“Nah. Live, die, do it again. No thanks.”

“But you do it again as something else. Or someone else.”

“Then you ain’t doing it again, are ya?”

“Well it’s like, you’re a new thing or person but your soul is still the same.”

“Nah.”

He sighs, thinking it’s easier to talk to Mickey. Watching her tug her ball cap off, scoff at it and tug it back on, “this your plane?”

“Sure. Ain’t it all just whoever the fuck wants it now?”

“Well, you’re a pilot, right?”

“Maybe in a different life,” she smirks at him.

It’s definitely easier to talk to Mickey, he shakes his head to himself, he should have just turned around and headed back to the house. The mansion. Whatever it is. 

“How was the cake?”

“It was good. Would have been better if you’d stayed, but I guess…”

“In a different life maybe.”

“Yeah,” he grins, “maybe.”

She hands the joint over to him, “take it easy. Potent shit.”

He nods, thinking of Lip now. Wondering if they’re locked in the basement. Or if they ended up on the wrong side of a scuffle over supplies. And yeah, this weed is so smooth he knows Lip would love it. But, a choice is a choice. And this, sitting on a seaplane with a near stranger who somehow doesn’t feel at all like a stranger, this wouldn’t have happened if he’d stayed. 

“So Mickey said there’s a general store down the road?” 

He said a lot more than that, like it’s owned by an older couple. That it’s locked but they open the doors for the locals. That the old man sits in a rocking chair on the front porch with a rifle on one hand and a beer in the other. That the old lady looks at Lou with a weird sadness in her old wrinkled eyes and there was a picture of what he assumes is their son behind the register. Mickey didn’t ask. Lou didn’t say anything, but her eyes lingered on the photo for nearly the entire time they were in the store. 

Well, he didn’t put it like that. There were a lot more fucks and shits and fuckevers in there. But it was to that context anyway.

“Sure is,” she finally replies, blowing a thin wisp of smoke towards the sky as she tips back over to lie on her back. Removing her ball cap, this time leaving it on her face. That seems like one way to shut down a conversation. So she’ll talk about government conspiracies and views on life and death, but she won’t talk about the local store? 

“So, you, um…”

“Shut the hell up. Everybody from Chicago think words are the best noise?”

“Well, no, I guess,” he eyes her, the way her hat has tilted on her face and she’s kind of half-assed smiling under it. Fuck it, he leans back until his back is flat against the wing of the plane. One hand behind his head, the other blocking the sun from his eyes. He takes a deep breath and he waits. 

The plane is bobbing gently in the slow waves. He can feel his muscles still snapping from the run, the soles of his feet sore and his mouth pretty damn dry. Blood in his ears giving way to the sound of the lake and the gulls. The late morning sun hot already.

“What are the winters like here?”

“Snowy. Ain’t as bad as up north though. Peninsula on the Superior side, ain’t weird for them to get two-hundred inches in a winter.”

“Two-hundred inches of snow?”

“Record’s like three-hundred-some.”

“Fuck, I thought Chicago winters sucked.”

“Wind.”

“What’s the temperature like?”

“Cold. Fuck that shit,” she rubs her hand along her bare arm, “we ain’t gotta do that again, do we?”

“True,” he sighs, hand falling from shielding his eyes to land on his belly, “what would a nuclear winter be like?”

“Cold.”

“Helpful.”

“Yep.”

Silence falls around them in the form of the lake and the wind and the wildlife. The buzz of the weed taking effect and the buzz of work out numbing his muscles and slowing his mind. And now he’s fucking starving.

“Alright,” he feels her sitting up beside him, “let’s see if any of these fuckers left their yacht kitchen fully stocked.”

————

“A Southside kid could get used to this,” sighing, leaning back in a lounge chair, watching the lake from the bow of the yacht. Plate full of food, champagne flute full of sparkling water. 

“S’pose so,” her feet are crossed at the ankles and Ian finds himself staring. Staring for long enough that she turns her head to look at him, “well it ain’t gonna bite ya.”

“No, but the owner might.”

She barks out a laugh that turns into a cough that turns them both into stoner giggles. When the giggle fit subsides, Ian finds himself leaning forward to examine her leg. 

“Carbon fiber. Got a running blade too.”

“How do they fit it to your, um, the rest of your leg?”

“Take molds. So the socket is the part that butts up to my real leg. They take images of the stump and mold the socket to fit exactly to the stump. It changes, they take new molds, make new sockets.”

“How does it stay on?”

“The top of the prosthesis is hollowed out to the shape of my leg. Fits nice and snug in there,” she sighs, “suction socket. What they call that.”

“So, what, do you, um, ever think it’s still there?”

“Sure. But it ain’t. Can’t change that now.”

His eyes are tugged to hers, something he’s not really done yet. Looked at her eyes, not for long anyway. Passing glance here and there. But she’s kind of scary, intimidating, is probably the right word. Not in a way that makes him want to run off, just in a way that makes him respect her. Immediately. 

“How’d it happen?”

She shrugs, “you ever been told you ask too many fuckin’ questions?”

He feels a blush creep into his cheeks and she swats his leg with a childish grin, “alright Rusty, you ever gone flyin’ over the lake before?”

—————

“Holy fuck,” he breathes as he stares out the window, “this is fucking incredible.”

The different shades of blue-green, the waves, the gulls, the shoreline all tan and brown and green and dotted with houses that stand out like sore thumbs. The feeling in his body like he’s the one flying, not sitting in a plane. Holy fuck. He just wishes Mickey was here. 

When he turns his head and sees Lou looking back at him with a carefree grin on her face, fuck, he wishes he was going to live long enough to make a career out of the military. Because this, this would be an awesome fucking way to make a living. He thinks, at least, without losing a leg. 

“Take the controls,” she tells him gently through the headset. 

“No, no way,” putting his hands up and leaning back in the seat.

“C’mon, do it. We ain’t gonna crash. I’ve got you,” her hands start peeling back off her control wheel, fingers sliding across the grips like she’s tracing the spine of a long lost lover. 

“What do I do?”

“At this point, ain’t much different than drivin’ a car. Go easy, go slow.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

“Alright,” his hands slide over the grips on his side of the plane, heart leaping into his throat, glad for the numb of the weed. Without it he’s certain he would be choking to death on his own heart when he sees her let go. She’s silent for a long moment, out of the corner of his eye he can see her leaning back comfortably, watching out the window like she’s in the hands of a veteran pilot. Quick to trust. Or she just doesn’t give a shit about death. 

“How’s it feel?” she wonders with a smile aimed at him, as his heart has stilled and his breath has evened out. 

“It feels,” he sighs, “fucking amazing.”

“Well, if I live another life, I hope to fuck it’s a bird.”

Ian sighs, leaning his head back against his seat, letting the lull of the engine’s hum and the sights below them guide him into a waking dream. Fuck it’s surreal up here. 

————

“I don’t know how to thank you for that,” on solid ground again, it would feel like a letdown to be here if it wasn’t for going back down the beach to Mickey.

“S’pose you shouldn’t,” ball cap secured on her head, smile shadowed, but it’s there, “s’pose I should thank you. Ain’t been in the air since,” her voice trails off, so does her gaze, but he knows.

He watches her secure the ropes, check them, and straighten out to her full height, shoulders strong and square. She still has the military pride in her stance, “you, um, want to come over for dinner tonight?”

“Fuck, kid, I can’t shake you fuckers, can I?”

“No,” he half-laughs.

“Fuck it. Can’t beat ‘em, might as well join ‘em.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had Ian and Lou bond a little in RTNTY, but I feel like this version of her would be right up Ian's alley - more so than Mickey's. Back when Ian had military dreams, some potential there for some hero worship.
> 
> I also enjoy taking the mains out of canon early and making Ian realize just how shitty Mickey's life was and how much of a loving impact he has the potential to have on him. 
> 
> I feel like I'm moving at a snail's pace on this one, but we'll get there eventually. I kind of think I might break it up into three parts. Spend some time here to get to know the OC and maybe even the Southsiders at this stage when we take out the worst parts of canon and let them form a little more without those aspects. So yeah, Mickey's 18th birthday in canon was spent being raped, this one was spent on the beach stargazing and fucking. Much better :)


	12. It'll All Be Over Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, we've got two currently commenting readers and it sounds like we're ready to dive further into Lou. So let's.
> 
> Full disclosure - Lou was a character that I was originally going to write into Animal Kingdom. I watched AK from it's pilot episode on it's original air date and was immediately hooked for whatever godawful reason. And Lou started forming as someone I wanted to stick in there since the only thing the show is lacking is more of a female presence. So in my head she's just a part of AK anyway even though the first time I put her to fiction was for Mickey's storyline in Mexico. I'm too much of a sissy to write AK, but I keep dipping my toes in and doing these half-assed crossovers. Until one day, I'm going to just jump head first into AK and wave goodbye to Gallavich as they disappear in my rearview mirror. Today is not that day. But I'm getting my toes wet again. And once again, no need to watch AK, I'll add the pieces that are of interest to this storyline.

It’ll All Be Over Soon

 

There’s blood on her fingers when she wakes from the grip of a nightmare that leaves her in a cold sweat, trembling and screaming. 

“Louise?” 

“I’m fine Daddy,” her voice is weak though just a moment ago it was exiting her lips with the strength of a fuckin’ banshee. 

“Louise?” 

‘Least he remembers her name, “I’m fine Daddy, go back to bed,” hollering this time, sitting straight up in the twin bed where there used to be a bunk. Part of her mind still in the mountains, part of her mind here. Right here, in the house she grew up in. In the house half in the woods, half on the beach, and a million miles from sanity. 

But the door is slowly opening, wild-haired and clear-eyed, “the nightmares?”

Her eyes close for longer than a blink as she nods, being certain the blanket is covering the mess she made, “yeah Dad, but I’m fine, just…”

His hand rises in the air between them, “I’ll put on the coffee. We’ll get started on chores early today.”

She watches him turn to exit, a moment of lucidity in a sea of forgotten life and tangled memories. She wonders, sometimes, she wonders if things would be different, how things would be different if…

“I wish,” he sighs from where he’s stopped at the doorway, “I wish she was still here for you,” before he leaves her alone in the darkness of swirled memories turned nightmares.

————

Did a real number this time with the scrapping and clawing. Sitting on the ledge of the tub, cleaning the skin and blood from beneath her nails before she gets to work bandaging the ruts she left in her leg. It’s going to be a crutch day today. Fuck. 

A yelp from the kitchen stops her forward progress, hopping out on one leg, “Daddy?”

He’s holding his hand to his chest, watching the stove like he’s never seen it before. Confusion in his brow, “since when do we have a gas stove?” he wonders with anger nipping at his tone.

Since all her life. But she smiles, “it’s new, it’s hard to get used to, isn’t it? Can I look at your hand?”

“No,” waving her off with his uninjured hand, “it’s nothing,” motions jerky as he sets the stainless steel percolator on the lit burner.   
“Okay,” she sighs, sliding into the kitchen chair. Propping her chin on her hand, watching the way the gaslights flicker in the breeze coming through the open window. Guess there ain’t much sense in worrying over lost sleep when it’ll all be over soon.

It’ll all be over soon. Like a promise written in puffy clouds across a lazy summer sky. It’ll all be over soon. 

“When your mom comes home from the store she’ll cook us some eggs.”

“Yeah. I s’pose I could go collectin’ from the coop.”

It’ll all be over soon.

“That’s my girl. You’ll make the Navy proud.”

Sure will, her eyes linger on his for a long moment, wondering of all the ways to end a life, is forgetting harder or easier? She nods at him and he takes the steps over to ruffle her hair.

“Ever hear of shampoo?” but he’s grinning.

And sometimes, maybe, he’s the dad he used to be. The one that used to give her airplane rides on his back, arms spread wide while he mimicked the sound of an engine, running down the beach while she hung on tight around his neck. He’d tell her, ‘you’ll fly Louise. Someday you’ll fly’. He’s not the dad that always had a needle in his arm and a beer in his hand. He’s not the dad that ran off for a few years. Only coming home when he was out of money and out of H. 

But this last time, something was different. 

“Might as well get used to dirty hair,” she finally responds, “ain’t like I’ll have dry shampoo in my pack, huh?”

He salutes her, the grin lingering until his eyes fall to her leg, “what? What is this?”

Fuck, “nothin’ that’ll stop me.”

Falling to his knees in front of her, “Louise? Did they come for you? Did they… the zipperheads,” he jolts to his feet. This time headed for the gun cabinet.

“No Daddy, no the zipperheads didn’t make contact, we’re fine, we’re safe,” hopping over to lay a hand on his shoulder as he fiddles with the dial.

Her hand on his arm makes his head turn. Eyes fogged with confusion and lost memories being found before they fizzle away into nothing more than background noise. He shakes away from her grasp, taking a few steps back, “it’s late.”

Yeah, that’s the fuckin’ problem here, “yeah. It is.”

“Valentine?”

Fuck, “yeah, that’s me.”

“Tell the girls I love them.”

“I will Billy.”

“Goodnight,” a gentle nod as he backs away down the hallway towards his bedroom.

————

Steam swirls out of the lid of the thermos when she brings it to her lips. Burn tickling on contact, swishing through her mouth and down the hatch. Tilting back to watch the sky, zero-gravity chair she snagged from the mansion before the kids showed up. 

This yard, green grass with a fresh cut, the smell of clippings mingling with the smell of a fuckin’ hot ass summer. Yoopers weren’t made for heat. She adjusts her ball cap and pretends she can’t hear the sound of her sister’s laughter bouncing off the empty corridors in her head. She pretends she can’t hear the shouts of her name, echoing off the mirror surface of the lake. She pretends she can’t see her body, bloated and distorted when Marty dragged her up on shore. She pretends she can’t hear her mother, screaming to Nature and all things Holy, and she can’t feel her cold-fingered grip on her arm as she fell to her knees in the sand. She pretends she can’t still feel his grasp on her shoulders, every word parting his lips shaking her as he leaned towards her face and reminded her that she was supposed to look out for her, she was supposed to keep her baby sister safe. 

The sun is barely starting to turn the woods into gold when she hears the approach. She already knows exactly which one is it. They ain’t very smooth, and they sure in the fuck ain’t quiet. This one especially, it’s like he goes out of his way to step on every single thing that could possibly crunch or crack or rustle. His walk makes noise, like his swagger announces his presence before he’s visible.   
“The fuck you up so early for?” tilting her hat to watch him near, “ain’t teenagers s’posed to sleep ’til noon?”

He doesn’t respond, takes a drag of his cigarette and tilts his head towards the aluminum framed lawn chair beside her. She nods her okay and he sits. Settling in, another drag before he offers it her way.

Well, she quit smokin’ when she was rehabbing the leg, but it don’t look like that shit matters anymore. Trading him the smoke for the thermos. 

Silence. Holy shit, these city slickers are capable of silence. She finishes the smoke, leans back again and watches the sky lighting up to shades of morning. 

“So what’d you do?” she wonders when the silence starts getting heavy, “ya know, what you can’t sleep over, can’t stop seein’ in those closed lids?”

“Fuck,” his fingers rise to grind into his eyes and she snickers again over the tats, takes balls to make that kind of promise when you’re just a chicken shit little kid, “nothin’ that didn’t need to be done. Just, kinda, fuck. I don’t know. Ain’t like I’ve never seen a body, disposed of a body, fuckever. But fuckin’ eyeball goo, it’s just. Fuck, so I speared a guy in the fuckin’ eye. And it seems so fuckin’ primal and brutal. It ain’t like shooting someone in the head and endin’ it quick. That’s like, I don’ know, rippin’ someone’s eye out. And fuck, I don’t even know what they were plannin’ on doing. I was mindin’ my own, eatin’ blueberries and,” he leans up to pull something out of his back pocket. A decent sized chunk of birch bark, “this. What is this? What can I make out of it?”

“Whatever you want, I guess,” she shrugs, “why? Got some sentimental value or what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” but it sounds more like a yes.

She half-laughs at the sudden sheepishness that’s rising, it’s about to be defensive and he’ll probably get up and walk away if she ribs him, “well,” extending her hand to take it from him, “could soften it, make a journal cover, doodle on it, wrap it around a fuckin’ candle holder. Whatever you want,” she rolls it out on her thigh, it ain’t a bad piece of bark, “you draw?”

“No.”

“You write?”

“No.”

“Uh, burn candles? Help me out here,” letting it roll itself back up before passing it over.

“Fuck, fine. I grabbed it ‘cause I thought I could make somethin’ for Ian or some dumb shit,” his thumb traces the bridge of his nose.   
This time she has to look away. Fucking puppy love. How fuckin’ cute, “kay, well what does Ian do? I mean, you could make something useful like a basket if you gather more. But if you ain’t plannin’ on livin’ past the next two weeks, then just draw a damn beach scene on it or some shit and hand it over.”

“A basket?”

“Like a syrup basket or somethin’. If maple trees survive, you can tap the tree in the spring.”

“Huh?”

“Fuck. Maybe you can’t. But, um, people who know how can,” she smirks at him.

“Fuck off, so there like a whole lot of shit I could make out of this stuff?”

“Birch bark? Yeah. Your shitty attitude? No.”

His middle finger and his eyebrows respond but she cuts him off before he can tell her to fuck off again, “only s’posed to harvest it in Spring so you don’t damage the tree, but I guess humans have already ruined the planet, what’s wrong with killin’ a few more birches before we go out in a flaming ball of shit? Or if we wander enough we might find some downed branches we can roll the bark off.”

“Don’t you need two legs for that?” his lips are pursed and his brows are up. 

She responds by mimicking his expression, “maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Guess we’ll find out.”

————

So he ain’t the brightest crayon in the box, but he’s a quick learn. And weirdly eager about it. Asking so many fucking questions and actually listening to the answers. Plodding around in the woods with a crutch ain’t exactly the quickest mode of transportation but Mickey doesn’t seem to give a shit. 

Sorting through the loot they’ve gathered when they get back home, watching the deer coming in for their daily check of the fruit trees, “you ain’t gonna shoot any?”

“Don’t need ‘em. Let ‘em eat their heart’s desire and move along all fat and happy. They don’t know what’s comin’ any more than we do. They’re just preparin’ for what should be a long cold winter. I ain’t gonna stop ‘em.”

“Rural life is fuckin’ weird. You all work the land and it don’t look like an easy task to grow this shit, but you’re fine sharin’ with wild animals?”

She shrugs, “sure. S’pose it’s all a delicate balance anyway. One that’s been taken for granted by a growing population that overuses and don’t give a shit about the effect it has on nature. Like they ain’t gonna be the generation reapin’ what we sow, so why should they care anyway? Besides, I feed them, they feed me. Shit’s pretty simple here.”

He’s quiet for a minute, watching the deer with a furled brow before he shakes his head, hands over his collection of bark and wonders, “what now?”

“Soften it. Smooth it, weave it.”

“You make it sound all fuckin’ simple and shit, but I get the feeling it ain’t.”

—————

The second batch is boiling, the first is spread out on cookie sheets when Billy walks through the house like he’s goin’ somewhere, “Dad? Where you goin’?”

Stopping at the backdoor, he’s got a handful of papers tucked under his arm and an old flip-phone in his hand, “I’m sorry Valentine. I have to find her. I have to find him. I can’t stand it any longer.”

“Who?”

“I abandoned you, I cheated, I slept with her. I told you that. I stayed with her. For a year. For two years. While you were raising the girls. I told you that. You forgave me. Remember?” there’s a crease of concern on his face and panic in his eyes, “you forgave me, please forgive me. Please Valentine,” he lurches towards her suddenly, throwing himself into an embrace that she sure in the fuck don’t feel like giving, “please forgive me, please. It was only the once Valentine. You have to believe me. You have to believe me. I paid for my sins,” his head leaves her shoulder, face growing stoney, voice evening out, “I paid for my sins. She died. Anna died because of my sins. I paid for my sins!” he’s shouting now.

Part of her wants to slap him. See if that works. Part of her wants to put him in a straight jacket. And part of her wants to put a bullet in his head. 

Instead, her hand rises on auto-pilot, tracing along his arm, her eyes fall to the old needle scars. And she wonders if it was the drugs, the jungle, the dead child, the dead wife, or all of the above that did it. 

“Billy,” her voice is calm, it’ll all be over soon, “Billy, I forgive you. I’d never not forgive you. You wanna go find her? Huh? Where you s’pose she is?”

“California Valentine. She’d never leave California.”

“Okay. Well if we’re goin’ to California then we gotta get dressed, pack some bags and gas up the truck.”

“You’re right,” he sighs, the tension dissipating, “you’re always right,” eyes softening as he looks her over, “Valentine?”

“Yeah Billy?”

“You look different,” his hand rises, taking a gentle grip on her chin to tilt her face, “like life hasn’t been kind to you in the last few years.”

Gee fuckin’ thanks Dad, “yeah Billy. It’s been a rough one. Why don’t you get yourself dressed, huh?”

“Of course,” he smiles, handing the stack of papers to her before he starts down the hall, whistling to himself.

The kid waits a beat, waits until he’s long gone, before he wonders, “what you gonna do when he comes back out here expectin’ to go to California?”

She shrugs, heading for the bottle of tequila that’s in the cabinet behind all the prescriptions she don’t take anymore. Fuck’s an opioid gonna do for her that weed can’t? ‘Cept form an addiction. Two shot glasses full and one handed over. 

“May we get what we want, but never what we deserve,” clinking the glasses, grateful for the burn as she fills them again, “s’pose maybe I’ll take him out on the seaplane, dump him in the lake and let Mother Nature take it from there,” another shot, “may we be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows we’re dead,” fuck, “maybe I’ll just take him for a ride down to Rocky and Marty’s. Let him sit on the front stoop with the old man and a rifle and see who wins the day,” one more. ‘Least this kid can hold his own, “another day, another bender, no retreat, no surrender.”

She listens to the screech and squeal of the hand-pump well in the bathroom, hoping to fuck he’ll shave and wash up and forget what he was set out to do in the first place by then. 

Laying the papers out on the kitchen table, a copy of a birth certificate. No father. Just mother. Janine Cody. Baby boy. Deran Cody. Underneath that, a stack of photos. Some blond chick holding a fat baby. She looks like money. And sex. And Lou immediately hates her. And gets a sinking feeling, like this is the woman, like this is, “think I got a brother.”

Oh shit, this time his walk made no noise at all, he just appears beside her. Looking down at the same photos she’s looking at. Sifting through. And sure enough, there’s Billy holding a baby boy. Cigarette dangling out of his mouth. 

“Fuck. You got brothers?”

“A whole fuckin’ pile of ‘em,” his K finger moves one of the photos aside, revealing the one underneath. A whole group of people, looks like a party. Including the blonde chick. Photo’s taken from a ways back, includes a pool where kids are swimming and running around. That baby is floating on some kind of raft, an older kid hangin’ on to it, kid looks maybe eight years old, reddish hair. None of the adults seem to be giving two shits about the kids. Booze, smokes, drugs, sex. 

—————

She tried to talk Mickey into going home, but he was pretty damn insistent on coming along. Not sure why, maybe just to take a ride in the bed of a truck instead of a wagon. But now he’s wandering the store, pretendin’ he ain’t listenin’ to the conversation. Marty and Billy on the front porch, probably swappin’ war stories. Stay long enough, she’s certain he’ll forget his mission to get to California.

“Know anything about this?” passing the birth cert across the counter to the wrinkly old lady. Fuck, she ain’t much older than Billy but for some reason she sure in the fuck seems it.

Her round eyes scan the document, pretending not to be surprised when they make contact with Lou. She takes a deep breath, but Lou cuts her off, “don’t play stupid. It’ll all be over in two weeks anyway. Ain’t like he can take it to the grave with him now, not when he’s on a mission to find this kid. And this Janine Cody.”

“Louise, I…”

“Don’t fuckin’… no. Just don’t fuckin’ say you don’t know. I know as well as anyone does that what’s spoken between the good ol’ boys is kept between the good ol’ boys, but it always trickles down to the wife anyway. So just spill it.”

She’s still wearing her best poker face while she debates her next move. Waiting until Lou raises her eyebrows before she makes for the tequila under the counter, taking a long chug off the bottle and sliding it across. Narrowing her eyes for a moment, eyeing the crutch again, like it’ll magically disappear and she’ll be standin’ here on two fuckin’ legs married to her son and mothering seven fuckin’ kids by now.

“Stare all fuckin’ day, ain’t gonna change a goddamn thing,” Lou hears herself whisper, not losing the eye contact as she gulps down the gold liquid.

“Fine Louise. But only because we’re all dying. And he’s… well, he’d tell you himself eventually if he could remember it all,” hand snagging the bottle, a few slow swallows, a sigh, “Billy was always a womanizer. Always. Over in Vietnam, well, things changed him, drugs, boom boom, and all that shit. I suppose you know better than me what war will do to a person,” her brown eyes scan over the crutch butted into her armpit again and this time Lou’s dart over to the photo. For just a moment, just one, Eddie did always look best when he was wearing dirty jeans, a stained t-shirt, and a greasy ball cap. Fuck him.

“Billy met your mama after the war. Met her when he was driving truck, she was hitch-hiking across the States. Billy picked her up and the rest was history. Sort of. There were two things he couldn’t kick for her. One was the heroin. The other was Janine Cody. He’d run off on your mom, take extra trips on the rig but not bring home the hours on his paycheck. She knew. But bein’ a female back then, damn it, you whiny little millennial bitches have no fucking clue,” her eyes narrow at Lou and she takes a step back, hands up. 

“Fuck I don’t.”

“Oh that’s right, you broke into a male dominated academy and graduated top of your class,” but there’s a bite to it, like the old hag is jealous she was born in the wrong decade. Or maybe it’s about her son, it’s always about her son isn’t it? She takes another shot off the bottle and let’s the silence linger for a moment. 

Lou can feel Mickey’s presence in the store and she don’t give a shit what he overhears. He don’t seem to give a shit how fucked her life is. Probably ain’t from much better. Maybe worse. However the fuck you quantify a shitty childhood anyway.

“Even in the ‘90s it was unheard of for a woman to leave her husband ‘round these parts. It’s not like in a big city where sugar daddies are lined up around the block to sample the goods.”

“Well, I doubt,” she starts but the old lady’s glare shuts her up. Hands up in surrender again, “continue.”

“She had no income. And she had two babies.”

“I don’t give a shit Rocky. Don’t give a shit why she stayed. I ain’t exactly Miss Independent either, so just fuckin’ get on with it.”

“Goddamnit Lou, you drive me to drink, you know that?”

“Hey don’t go blamin’ me for your problems,” but her eyes catch on the framed photo again, clearing her throat and wondering, “alright, so who’s this Janine? And what’s so special about her?”

“What’s so special about her? You got a pen and paper, we’ll be here awhile.”

Rolling her eyes, “give me the Cliff’s notes then.”

“Janine is fierce. Independent in a way none of the rest of us could be back then. Paving her way in a criminal world dominated by men, having the cunning to outlast every single one of them, having the smarts to dump any of them at the drop of a hat, and the wisdom to craft her sons into what she needed them to be instead of what they wanted to be.”

“That don’t sound like wisdom,” Mickey makes himself known from where he’s made his way over to the magazine rack.

“Sounds more like child abuse,” Lou agrees, but knows not to push it, “but anyway, doubt that’s any of the shit Billy was attracted to. She looks like a fucking Barbie doll accordin’ to the pictures. Also looks like she wasn’t stealin’ to survive.”

“Was at first. She had a rough childhood, but that’s neither here nor there. Thing is, she was sexy as hell, yes. But she was tough as fucking nails. And she had money, yes, but she started with nothing. Built herself a highly lucrative career in stealing shit. Trained her sons in young, so she didn’t have to rely on anyone outside her own family. And she always gives plenty back to her community.”

“Modern day fuckin’ Robin Hood?”

“Not really. Just someone who survived the ‘60s by knocking off diners, ‘70s, ’80s, ‘90s saw banks and businesses. She collected properties, moved to higher end jobs. The higher the payout, the more dangerous the job. Plenty of jewelry, cars, art. Anything to make a buck.”

“Sounds like you got a little crush on her.”

Rocky laughs, “nah. And I’m not saying stealing is okay by any means,” leveling her with a mom gaze that she ain’t seen in years, “I’m just saying, some people are good at working behind a desk, some people aren’t.”

“You sayin’ my dad did some of that shit?”

She shrugs, “that’s between you and him Lou.”

But now she’s remembering the time he came home with a brand new ring for her mother. And it sure in the fuck wasn’t something a trucker could afford, “was it all a lie?”

Her wrinkled hand lands on top of Lou’s on the counter, “no. Billy has always had his set of problems, but the part where he loved you, Valentine, and Anna? That was never a lie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> However, if you do watch AK, clearly this Billy has a different background than AK's Billy. The war vet part was added for Lou's military story benefit. 
> 
> And if you don't watch AK - so season 4 just ended and during season 4 we saw the Codys bust their way into a bunker and steal a bunch of gold. The guy who owned the bunker has been prepping since the '60s or '70s for the end of the world... this could be helpful...
> 
> Or I could still just be fucking around and they're all gonna die in two weeks :)
> 
> Getting in deeper with an OC might be the life breathing into this story that we all need, but we'll get back to the mains here soon enough.
> 
> May we get what we want but never what we deserve...


	13. Moses And The Burning Bush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't really serve any purpose other than to remind us that our boys are really still just our boys, and isn't young love adorable even in the face of world ending disaster?

Moses and The Burning Bush

 

“How’s it lookin’ Gallagher?”

“Um,” he sounds all fuckin’ breathless back there, “it looks, uh,” his hands haven’t made any kind of contact, Mickey can’t even feel his body heat near, “it looks…”

“Spit it out mumbles, the fuck? My asscheek rotting off or what?”

“No,” stupid fucking giggle, “no, it’s fucking…”

“What? Jesus,” delivering a kick to the shins that ‘pparently catches the dope off guard and his hands come down on Mickey’s ass, “ow, fuck, what the fuck firecrotch?”

“Shit, sorry, but that wasn’t my fault asshole.”

“Fuckever, just get the fuck off me and tell me how my assholes look.”

“Damn, if you had six assholes I don’t know what I’d do with you.”

“You got ten fingers, a tongue, and a dick. I think you could figure it the fuck out.”

“I think I can figure out,” his finger trails down Mickey’s asscrack, “what to do with this one.”

“You fuckin’ serious Gallagher?” but it don’t stop him from leaning back, tilting just a little. Just a tad, but it’s not for Ian to have easier access or anything like that, it’s just ‘cause he’s gotta re-situate here, “I ask you to do a wound check and you can’t get your mind out of the fuckin’ gutter long enough to actually do it?” oh fuck that feels good. And now the idiot is taking a step closer and Mickey can feel his body heat through the heat of the night in this ridiculous bedroom that’s all impersonal and way too fucking white. 

“So, uh,” the sound of the lube bottle cap balls up anticipation in his stomach, “I, um, kind of,” his mouth meets Mickey’s spine as the first finger passes the threshold. A grunt escapes but Ian ain’t done talkin’, “I found some stuff in the closet.”

“Fuck should I care about the fuckin’ Gucci shit you found in there?”

Another dopey giggle, “not clothes Mick. I found their props.”

“Props? The fuck you talkin’…” his breath chokes off when that second finger presses in. Feeling his body tense as Ian starts that damn finger-arching bullshit that makes him flush like a fuckin’ tomato ‘bout to burst, “about?”

“Um, sex stuff.”

“You better not be talkin’ about wantin’ to stick some chick’s dildo in my ass. Or fuckin’ whips and chains shit. ‘Cause if you get all puppy eyed askin’ me to give in to your dying man’s wish, then I ain’t got a choice but to fuckin’ give in and that shit ain’t happenin’. Fuck,” his fists clench up and slam down on the mattress when a third finger sweeps alongside the other two. 

“No. Well, yeah, there’s some weird damn shit in there. But no, I don’t want to leave marks all over your body. Kinda like your body that way it is now,” his lips meet Mickey’s spine again and Mickey’s stomach does that weird little flip thing that he’s still not sure if he’s okay with, “but I was thinking, if you want to, and only if you want to, there’s some handcuffs in there…”

“I ain’t gettin’ cuffed fuckface, I’ve been…”

“Shh,” his fingers have stopped moving, fucker’s in the power seat and he knows it, “not you shithead. Me. If you want to cuff me. And ride the fuck out of me.”

“That sounds really fuckin’ queer man.”

“Hey Mick?”

He still ain’t movin’ those fingers. This time Mickey turns his head, “huh?”

“You’re queer.”

Middle finger response, “fuckever. Go get your fuckin’ cuffs then.”

—————

Fuckin’ fuck it’s sweaty in here. Fuck. No sense in tryin’ to wipe off any of it, it just comes back right away. His eyes scan over Ian’s body, his chest where Mickey’s hands have come to rest, trailing down his abs. Yeah, of course the idiot is hot. He takes care of himself and it shows. And sure, Mickey don’t mind tracing a finger over every muscle line, dragging the sweat through every dent and across every plain. 

Not having the dope’s hands on him is weird. He’s not sure he likes it. And he feels pretty fuckin’ exposed doin’ this. It’s a lot easier when he can just duck his head into Ian’s chest and pretend he ain’t feelin’ all the shit he’s feelin’ every single fuckin’ time they fuck.  
Doesn’t help that the dummy insisted on leaving lights on. ‘Least Mickey talked him into just the dim setting. Idiot had it all lit up in here like he was landin' a fuckin’ plane or some fuck. 

He watches his hands slide over Ian’s shoulders, finding the back of his head and watching his face. Fuck, he always looks at Mickey like the world is only revolvin’ ‘cause Mickey’s spinnin’ it on his finger. 

Fucker. Now he’s smilin’ and Mickey can’t help but smile back. Feeling a blush creeping up his cheeks when Ian’s eye contact doesn’t falter. 

Fuck him. Best way to shut him up, and the best way to get him to stop starin’? Ducking and diving down into his lips. It’s fuckin’ messy and passionate and it’s almost like they’re both tryin’ too hard to climb down the other one’s throat. Fuck, maybe it’s safer in there. 

—————

Wiped all the residue off, now he’s thinkin’ he might just leave the dope cuffed to the bed. If he could find a way to shut him up too, it’d be perfect. Feed and water him a few times a day and just use him for his dick ’til the world ends. 

“You, um…” his face is asking the rest of the question as he shakes his hands to clang the cuffs. Mickey has always hated that fucking noise, but now, now that it’s this image that’s clinging to it, it ain’t so bad. 

He smirks and shakes his head, “nah, think I’ll leave you like that. Use you as my personal sex dummy for the next fuckever amount of days we got left.”

He shrugs, “sure. Too bad I have to pee.”

“Yeah that is too bad. For you, that is.”

“You want me to piss all over the bed?”

“You’re the only one in it. Ain’t like I don’t got options in this joint.”

“I won’t be a very sexy sex dummy when I’m covered in bodily fluids and shit.”

“Yeah, literally,” feeling a brow raise as he lowers himself over his hips, grinding his ass against his lower abdomen, “you gotta pee?” he’s got the key in his fingers, palms sliding up Ian’s arms.

“Fuck you, yes, I have to pee,” but he’s grinning, and when Mickey ducks into his neck and blows a raspberry against his sweat slimed skin he giggles like a fuckin’ kid, bucking with his pelvis but it ain’t enough to throw Mickey off. Only enough to make him do it again, “I’ll get you back for this, you know,” but his threats don’t mean a damn thing when he’s laughing that idiotic childish laugh that makes Mickey’s skin tingle.

—————

“Your ass looks great, by the way,” his sigh travels through Mickey’s hair and it sends a fuckin’ tingle down his spine.

Listening to Ian’s heart beating against his ear, ribs moving with every breath under his hand, “fuck you.”

“I’m serious, your assholes look fine, healing well. And the rest of it,” he whistles his approval, hand coming down to grab the uninjured cheek and press Mickey’s body closer to his side. 

Fuck, it ain’t like it’s comfortable to be all stuck together in this fucking heat, but fuck, it’s comfortable as fuck to be close to this idiot. Like all the time. And it ain’t like they gotta worry about Terry bustin’ in, or his brothers findin’ out. Mandy, she don’t give a shit. Now that they’re in this place, Mickey’s become certain all she cares about is sitting on the beach, collecting rocks and shit. Good for her, she can swim and all that too.

And the whole handful of locals around, they don’t seem to give a shit about nothin’ more than just carrying on with their everyday life. The fuck they’re doin’ that for, Mickey has no clue, acting like the world ain’t endin’. 

“You believe in God Mick?”

He feels his face screw up immediately, before his head rises to look at the moron, “the fuck would I believe in God for? Some prick who teaches people to hate queers and dykes and women and anything and everything that’s different? Fuck religion. And fuck am I s’posed to believe shit like some fuckin’ guy buildin’ an arc and parting some sea, and the virgin fuckin’ Mary? Seriously? Fuckin’ messages from God bein’ sent through angels? Yeah, okay. A guy who can heal people just by touchin’ em? Sorry, only burnin’ bush I care to have a fuckin’ look at is yours.”

His dopey smile is growing impossibly more dopey, “just wondering. I don’t think that’s really what religion is about, I think some people like to use it as an excuse to hate, but I don’t know. I’ve never read the bible.”

“Who the fuck has?”

“Um, nobody I know.”

“Fuckin’ God talk comin’ from a kid who was fuckin’ a towel-head? Shouldn’t you be converted to Islam or some fuck anyway?”

“Come on, it’s not like I was interested in him for anything more than the free food he’d throw my way, or the stuff he bought me. It was just,” he shrugs, but his shoulders are kind of deflating inwards, “it was just fun. Or…”

“Your fun and my gross have a fuckin’ lot in common Gallagher.”

Shit, now he’s lookin’ all lost puppy and now Mickey’s gotta figure out how to back the fuck out of this, “Jesus Christ Gallagher, it don’t fuckin’ matter. Just don’t use your body for shit anymore, alright? You got a hot body, yeah, any fucking idiot can see that, but it ain’t like that’s all you got. Didn’t we already talk about this shit anyway? Let’s move on, man. What’s this God shit now? This like a, what happens when we die in fuckever many days, or what?”

“Um, yeah, I guess,” the lost puppy is turning relieved puppy and his eyes are lingering on Mickey’s like he’s got all of life’s fuckin’ secrets on the surface of his fuckin’ irises or some fuck.

“I don’t know, you think there’s like a Heaven or something?”

“Maybe.”

“Or like the damned are damned to wander Earth forever?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fuckin’ Purgatory and shit? Good thing I got tough skin, man, ‘cause I’m burning in the fiery pits of Hell then. And what happens when all of humankind is dead and there ain’t no one left to pray for the toasting souls in Purgatory? Fuck it, maybe we come back as life on a new planet. Start over as dinosaurs or some shit. But fuck me if I ain’t startin’ to understand why people here call this God’s Country. After wanderin’ around in the woods today,” he sighs, realizing now that he’s playing with Ian’s fingers that have sort of found his on his chest, “I don’ know. It’s just peaceful in some way I never imagined or some shit,” his fingers free themselves from Ian’s and thumb at his nose before he tucks himself back in under his chin. Fuckin’ idiot lookin’ at him like that, Jesus, it’s just too much sometimes.

They both fall silent for a moment, the whir of the ceiling fan, the waves crashing the beach outside the open window, the breeze blowing mist in through the screens, smell of sand and fresh air.

“You know, you don’t gotta come to the Porcupines with me. If you wanna head back down to Chicago, or some shit, I get it. You got family there. Only part of my family that matters is with me, so…”

His graceful fingers take a strong grip of Mickey’s chin, willing him out of his safe haven and forcing eye contact. Fucker is strong, and Mickey kind of hates that as much as he loves it, “I’m coming with you. You’re my family. I’m literally following you to the end of the Earth, and I’m fuckin’ happy about it.”

“Jesus Christ you’re an idiot.”

“Yep, a corny, queer, dopey, idiot.”

“Exactly that,” smirking at him while Ian’s eyes soften and start to twinkle like the millions of stars they can see from the beach, “c’mere,” cocking his head to extend the invitation to make the fuck out. And maybe of all the stupid shit they’ve done together and separately, maybe runnin’ away to stand on a cliff and watch the world end, maybe it’s the dumbest. But fuck’s it matter anyway? Ain’t like either one of them was destined to be President, or lead a space expedition, or solve the clean water crisis, or fuck, even somethin’ legal and simple like lead a family life. Nah, Southside, fucked for life. Even if Ian did by some fuckin’ miracle handed to him by the gods of math, make it to West Point, he’d probably just get his ass roasted in the sandbox over there. Or worse, come back like that wack-job across the road thinkin’ his daughter is his dead wife. Fuck. Wonder if Terry ever thought that shit about Mandy? Fuck that. Fuck him. 

Fuck. He doesn’t pull away from Ian’s lips until his own are fucking sore as hell and his dick is raging hard again. His hand has already found Ian’s cock and is lazily cranking away on it. 

“You up for another round?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” it’s mumbled against his neck where he’s half-tucked himself back in.

“I’ll jerk yours, you jerk mine.”

“Sounds good Burning Bush.”

“I’m going to start calling you Moses if you start with that shit.”

“I’ve already seen the angel in your bush Gallagher.”

“Yep, we’re headed to the land of milk and honey,” his laugh tickles through the top of Mickey’s head again and he’s not sure if he’s headed to the land of milk and honey or a fuckin’ really heavy night of sleep, but he’s going there pretty fuckin’ quick. 

“If there is an afterlife,” he hears Ian whisper over the heavy fog of invading sleep, “I’m going to spend it with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, jokes about religions and the bible are just never funny, are they? Whatever, my hand basket is supercharged, gassed up and I'm ready to keep my limbs inside at all times for an obstacle free trip to the fiery pits of Hell. 
> 
> Oh and... Reminder: the views of the writer are not represented by the characters :) I just figure, if the show is going to give us Gay Jesus, then I might as well have them talk just a bit about religion and since it's an end of the world, certain(?) death scenario, it was bound to come up eventually between them.
> 
> If the assholes are healing, does that mean they're going to pull up the stakes and head north soon? Leave Lou behind, or ask her to come along? Think she'd leave her father?


	14. Floating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is off the cuff, all kinds of mistakes and such, but gunpowderandsunshine wanted to know what Mandy was up to during this...
> 
> Ask and you shall receive :)
> 
> PS I really need to get a life.

Floating

 

Mandy digs her toes into the sand. Tilts her head back and watches the sky with a canopy of stars and lights she’d never see in Chicago. Counting every blink and flash. She heard once, that if the stars are blinking fast and erratic it means a storm is coming in. That’s not the case tonight. Slow, steady, like a baby blinking off into sleep. 

A deep breath through her nose registers the scent of lake, fish, sand, all the things she never smelled in the Southside. She lets her arms dangle limply at her sides. Bare of clothing as she steps into the gentle waves. Disturbances on an iridescent surface. She’s alone out here. As far as the eye can see it’s just her and the beach. And a feeling, something she’s never felt before and she can’t name it. Breathing it in through her nose, closing her eyes and falling. 

The water rushes around her, whooshing in her ears. It pushes at her from all sides. Something she never knew. She always assumed it was true, sink or swim. But it’s not. She can sink all the way to the sandy bottom, let the water press down and roll her around in the waves, let it take her wherever it wants her to go. And when her eyes feel ready to burst and her lungs are on fire, she can push off the bottom and still she doesn’t have to swim. 

Mandy spreads her arms wide on the surface, hands open and lets the water push her towards the air. Keeping her head back, her back straight, her shoulders relaxed, and her knees bent. Just slightly, tiny kicks here and there. And just breathes. Floating.

Sink or swim. But there’s a third option no one ever talks about. Floating. Just skimming the surface. Feeling the water and the air. The water sloshing around her head, her ears, it sounds like she’s listening through a tin cup. Her mother used to have a seashell, old Ms Bodnar next door brought it with her across the ocean, and when she put it to her ear she was certain it was the only sea she would ever listen to. 

She feels herself smiling as a wispy wind blows across her face, the part of her chest that’s exposed to the night. She knows if she wanted to, she could put her feet down on the sand and walk back to shore. But she doesn’t want to. 

She watches her arm extend skyward as her legs kick lazily to keep her afloat. Her finger rising, tracing a pattern from star to star. Star to star and she thinks of Tinker Bell and how much she’s always hated fairy tales. With the exception of Peter Pan. The boy who could fly. The lost boys. Escaping. 

Escaping. Her finger traces the line of stars that look more like a misty far off galaxy and she wonders at how small she truly is. In a web of humans and planets and stars and galaxies, she’s no more than a single particle. A tiny being that could be crushed like an ant at any given moment. Crushed by a wave or a natural event. A manmade event. A freak accident. A non-accident. Like Nadiya. 

A tiny being that could be crushed by her life. Her father. Her brothers. Her boyfriends. The unrelenting presence of her mother.   
Escaping. Never growing up. 

She figures she’ll just keep surviving. No matter what the world throws at them. Maybe her brother and Ian are ready to fuck their way into the apocalypse. Maybe Iggy was ready to blast his way up the ivory tower. And Colin? Maybe an acid trip to another universe. No one’s heard from Joey or Tony since their mom took off. At least she had the sense to take them with her. Fuck Nadiya. Fuck her for taking the easy way out, abandoning them with Terry, fuck Terry. Fuck Nadiya for the needle in her arm. And fuck Terry for the hands on Mandy’s thighs.

Fuck. A shiver races down her spine and she suddenly feels even smaller. Like her anger and her problems and her fucked childhood are the biggest part of her. Her defining qualities. The reason she keeps pushing herself into shitty relationships and letting guys walk all over her. The water is getting deeper, the waves getting more powerful. And still she floats. One hand extended, tracing lines between the stars.

The thing is, Mandy has always been a survivor. Whether she wanted to be or not. She’s had opportunities. Plenty of them. To quit. To give up. Like her mother did. To swallow the pills, careful and round. To push the needle, thick and instant. To chase it all away with a bottle, burning and suffocating. She’s had the blade in her hand before, resting against her wrist, sharp and glinting like the surface of the water she’s floating on. 

But she has chosen. So many times. To survive instead. 

Another shallow gust of warm wind caresses her face. She’s used to wind. The windy city. Chicago. The wind won’t ever blow away. The wind from her life and her past and her circumstances. And it would never blow away in a place like Chicago. And maybe a time like this, a situation like this, maybe this is her chance. And maybe it’s never been like this, maybe it’ll be easier, maybe not. Maybe she’ll be forever floating and never sinking or swimming. Or maybe she’ll float so far from shore she’ll never be seen again. 

She watches her fingers, grabbing the moon from the sky, and blowing it away like pixie dust. Eyes closed, water a gentle lullaby in her ears. 

Swirling in her lids the past, the present and what lies next. What lies next? 

When she opens her eyes again a flash of green light dances across the blanket of the night. Her feet hit the sand beneath her where she’s neck deep in crystal water. Eyes caught on the lights, they’re fading away.

“Tinker Bell,” she hears herself whisper, “to die would be an awfully big adventure,” she tells the sky. Watching as the green lights spread, and grow and flicker away to nothing but an illusion, “second star to the right and straight on ’til morning,” she smiles to herself, leaning back in the water again with a feeling of calm. 

Her hand flits across the surface of the sky, touching every star and the moon. Maybe these are the hard times, maybe the living and breathing and fighting are the hard times. Maybe the cracks in the drywall and the silence in a sea of years, maybe those are gone. Maybe the shadows dancing in her mind and lying in her bed at night, maybe when the stars collide with the moon and the world is swallowed whole by humans or nature or space, maybe those things will be gone. And maybe Neverland is waiting. 

Or maybe, she sighs, feeling the wind tickling her cheeks and tugging at a tear she never knew had fallen, maybe survival is built in. Maybe the rules will change. Maybe the memories will fade. 

A moan like a whisper sounds in her ear, ‘come back before too long’. 

A deep breath, her feet sink, waiting to contact the sandy bottom. But they don’t. Her head disappears beneath the surface and the last thing she sees is the dancing green flame in the night’s sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, she's not dead. I don't think ;)
> 
> I think I mentioned earlier in this work that I want to dive into Mandy some day. I include her in pretty much every fic and I'm taken by the character in similar ways as I'm taken by Mickey. But for some reason I can't quite find the sympathy for her even though she had it, really, probably worse than Mickey and she was so conditioned to all of the horrors in that house. Like Lou said, you can't really quantify a shitty childhood, it's just shitty. And Mandy had it shitty. I think it's partially that I find it harder to sympathize with female characters because I know females can take a lot of shit... and damn you Noel for everything you made me feel for Mickey! I blame Noel for it all, and not that Emma wasn't great as Mandy. But you know... Noel. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm not going super far into her past in this work, her darkness is dripping out all over another work that's taken Mickey to rock bottom and he needs her to drag his way back out, so we're going deeper with her in that. But she's still along for the ride here... I think, I guess we'll see!


	15. How To Land Without Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Mary mentioned that Mandy's support system is pretty MIA at the moment. Let's fix that...
> 
> WARNING: mentions of past rape and child abuse (this is the Milkovich family after all)

How To Land Without Breaking

 

Mickey wakes gasping for air, the water from his nightmare still lingering in his mouth, eyes, ears, nose. Heavy breaths and hands at his chest, blinking into the darkness to find Ian’s sleeping form. Sprawled on his back, one arm extended towards Mickey in sleep, resting on his shoulder. He doesn’t stir when Mickey lifts it to his mouth, presses it against his forehead to center himself. 

Fuck. Usually it’s Terry’s hands at his throat, or his mother’s blank dead eyes, or his bunkmate from juvie. It’s never drowning. 

Rising to his feet, a deep inhale of the scent blowing in the open windows. The ceiling fan, Ian’s breathing, the lake’s waves, those annoying ass birds. 

Fuck. His hands are tingly and his mouth feels likes it’s full of thick water. Grabbing the nearest t-shirt off the floor, tugging it over his head. A whiff of Ian fills his nostrils and fuck him for being so fucking tall all of a sudden. Down the stairs, pushing the bedroom door open that Mandy’s been sleeping in. Empty. 

Fuck. Mandy. Fuck, “Mandy?” 

Next bedroom. Empty, “Mandy?”

Nothing. Every fucking room in this fucking house is empty and his heart has lodged itself in his throat by the time he stumbles outside, empty patio, “Mandy?!” 

Racing around front, maybe she’s with Lou. No lights over there. No scent of weed riding a draft across the road. Fuck. No spark of a lighter in the dimness. The moon and the fucking bazillion stars make it easy to see where he’s going. And his feet start off without his brain telling him a fucking thing other than her name. 

It wasn’t long after Mom died that she took off for the first time. He searched the Southside in a panic, all the hangouts, all the friends’ houses. Aunt Rande. She was fucking gone without a fucking trace. It was dark by the time he found her sitting on a rusty old swing in a dirty playground full of broken bottles and old needles. By then he was too fucking overwhelmed and tired to be mad, but he punched her anyway. The first time he ever punched her for real, the only time he ever punched her for real. She didn’t even fucking flinch. Not a tear. She just sat there, watching her foot tracing patterns in the dirt. Mickey’s fingers were grinding his eyes out of his head trying like hell not to cry over hitting her, over Mom, over being Mandy’s only. Fuck. And then she got off the swing and slid her damn cold hand into his, dragged it away from his eyes, waited for him to blink away the fog before she told him, ‘I’m yours and you’re mine and we can’t ever forget that.’

But somewhere along the fucking way he forgot that. 

Fuck, “Mandy?!” 

Feet in the sand, cold now that it’s dark out and the sun’s heat has dissipated. Blood rushing in his ears, breath sharp and pained, focus blurring and fogging with panic, “Mandy?!”

A shadow on the shoreline. Her skin all pale and reflecting the glow of the moon. Shoulder blades sharp, lookin’ like they’re going to poke through her flesh, “fuck,” it’s relief and frustration and worry all balled into one word that stalls out on his tongue and sticks to the roof of his mouth. 

She’s on her butt, knees hugged to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins and her face tucked between. She’s fucking naked. 

He’s peeling the t-shirt off, draping it over her shoulders and plopping down beside her where the water seeps through his boxers immediately. Arm around her shoulder, dragging her into his side, his face meets her wet hair and his voice is all shaky and he hates that, “what the fuck are you doing?”

She shrugs, her body weight leaning into him, “I don’t want to die,” she whispers.

Oh fuck, way too much life and death and God talk to be dealing with this shit now. His hand is rubbing up and down her bare arm that’s somehow cold in this fucking heat that just won’t fucking quit, “I know,” is all he can manage. 

Sure, leaving all that shit behind them in the house they grew up in, doing this shit they’d never get a chance to do otherwise, it sounds like a fucking blast. But at the end of the day, they still die. And it don’t matter where they are when it happens and it don’t matter what they’ve done in the last few weeks to try to make living worth somethin’, there’s still so fucking much they won’t get to do.  
“How’d you see your life ending up?” she wonders through her knees and some tears.

“Fuck, I don’t know. Prison. Breakin’ out, headin’ for the border,” he grunts out a laugh.

Her hand finds her cheeks and gives a cursory wipe, and a half laugh, “probably.”

“You?”

She shrugs under his arm, “probably one douchebag boyfriend after another ’til one of them knocked me up.”

“Raisin’ a fuckin’ kid in the Southside. Baby daddy takes off, you end up livin’ with Aunt Rande or some shit.”

“Selling my body for rent money.”

He waits, letting her wipe her cheeks one more time and hide again before he kisses her head, “nah. You would’ve got out. You pretend to be stupid, but you ain’t.”

“Fuck you, I don’t pretend to be stupid.”

A snort of disbelief, “uh, yeah you do. And you ain’t. Besides, you’d make a shitty mom and hopefully a shitty hooker.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Uh, ‘cause the first pervert you got tried to choke you or beat you, you’d fuckin’ kill ‘em.”

“I fuckin’ wish,” her hand rises again, swiping away more tears, voice all shaky and weak, “those guys at the river, and,” hard swallow, barely above a whisper, so quiet Mickey’s not even certain he’s heard it, “Dad. And I just froze. Every time. Like I wanted to live more than anything. I’d take rape over death. And sometimes I just wonder, you know, if he had the balls to kill me instead. Or if I screamed or fucking shot him. Or,” her voice trembles and disappears.

Mickey can feel that his grip on her arm is too fucking tight and he can’t seem to let go. Anger prickling up his spine, and the idea, the fuckin’ truth of their father. And now? He’s too fuckin’ far away and he can’t do anything about it. Unless…

“That fuckin’ guy at the river. They just wanted our shit, and I don’t know, maybe we would have just given it to them in the end if you hadn’t showed up. But he kept saying shit about how I taste and how he likes a struggle and…”

Blood is boiling under the surface of Mickeys flesh and raging in his ears, he grabs her face, pulling it out of her safe place and forcing eye contact, “I should have fucking killed them. And I should have fucking,” now his voice chokes off, and he starts over, “if I knew about Dad, fuck. Mandy, why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d freak out. End up either putting a bullet in his head and landing me in foster care, or maybe he’d beat you to death and I couldn’t fucking take that chance. You say I act like I’m stupid? You’re no better. You’re the smartest of all of us and you let your damn anger make your decisions for you most of the time. And your fear of Dad,” she says the last part with a quieting voice and a dare in her eyes.

A dare to admit it, to just admit it. Just fucking admit it, “yeah. Fine, fuck, I don’t want to know what he’d do to me if he found out I’m gay. And yeah, sure, I’m fuckin’ terrified to piss him off. He’s always fucking hated me the most…”

“He doesn’t hate you the most. You’re the challenge dipshit.”

“Huh?”

“You’re the one who never fucking ducks and hides and flinches and shows fear. You question him and talk back and make him think he doesn’t have the upper hand. He treats us like dogs Mick and you’re the dog that bites back instead of cowering in the corner like the rest of us. He beat the rest of us into submission but apparently you don’t mind getting beat or something,” she shrugs.

“Fuck you, I fuckin’ hate that shit.”

“I know you do. He doesn’t realize it though.”

He sighs, his eyes lingering on hers, the mirror image of their mother’s and his own. Shaking off all that shit to wonder again, “the fuck you doin’ out here naked?”

Now that Mandy smile rises and she immediately looks like she’s taken off to wherever the fuck she goes when life gets too hard to hang around for, “I was floating. And got carried away. I guess Ian was right though. The currents here run parallel to the shore so if you just float on the current it’ll eventually let you go and you’ll stay equal distance from the sand, you’ll just be further down the beach. And fighting the current will do nothing more than tire you out. Unless it’s an undertow.”

“Ian said that?”

“What? He’s not as dumb as he acts either,” she smirks.

Mickey shrugs, feeling some of the blood in his veins cooling the longer he looks at her, and the more okay she seems but it’s still not okay and it’ll never be okay, “did you have like a bucket list or some stupid shit?”

“Fuck no,” she snorts, “bucket lists are for people with fuckin’ money. Guess I just wanted to survive to see adulthood. Get out of Terry’s house however the fuck I could. I’d have visited you in prison though,” she shoots him a hard elbow to the ribs.

“Yeah, yeah. So you think there might be an after?”

“A post-apocalypse?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. But if there is, and there’s all this fucking wild west, lawless, ruthless survival bullshit then I’m going to need that fuckin’ chastity belt because I will die before I’ll ever be raped again.”

Her eyes are dancing blue flames and he feels himself nod. All the fucked up shit that Terry’s done to them all, fuck, he never raped his sons. 

His hand is on the back of her head, pulling her forehead towards his lips, “I’m yours and you’re mine and I’ll kill before you ever get raped again,” it was meant to sound strong but it shakes anyway and he feels her gasp of warm breath against his chest where she’s nuzzled her way in.

“You remember when you jumped off the back porch, ‘cause you thought you could fuckin’ fly Peter Pan?”

She laughs, “couldn’t fly, but I did scrape my arms and legs up pretty good.”

“Yeah you did. But you landed, figured out, you know, how to land without breakin’ anything.”

“Guess I’m not a bird and can’t land on my feet like a cat either.”

“No,” he sighs, taking a good inhale of her hair, “point is, you didn’t break.”

“You’re queer.”

“Uh, yeah, thought we established that,” nudging her with his shoulder, “now put the fuckin’ shirt on and teach me how to float or some shit. Drag me outta fuckin’ bed at like four in the mornin’, might as well make it worth it.”

—————

So swimmin’ in this water with holes in his ass probably ain’t the smartest thing he’s ever done, but it ain’t the dumbest really. Bacterial infection climbs its way in there, won’t kill him before the asteroid does. 

And sure, Mandy was pretty fuckin’ right. The sun is starting to rise, the sky is is throwing color at the lake and the lake is throwing it right back. And this floating thing, well, it’s pretty fuckin’ relaxin’. Maybe it don’t count as swimming since he could put his feet on the bottom and only be waist deep whenever he wanted, but maybe he don’t need to swim. Cool thing about floating, it don’t feel like sinkin’ anymore.

And when the water rushes around him and Mandy’s hand slides into his, he feels himself smile. The waves not muting out the sound of Ian’s voice calling over the annoying ass birds, “you’re floating Mick!”

“I sure fuckin’ am burning bush,” his voice sounds all weird with the water sloshing around his head but there ain’t nothing weird about the rest of him. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other thing you mentioned was having her own separate support system, something other than Mick and Ian. And I guess if I pull the crossover threads there's an AK character that I could absolutely see being a romance/fling/mutual respect relationship for her. 
> 
> I'm having a weird time with this one and I am counting on comments to keep me going, I don't always take requests but it never hurts to make one. And a lot of chapters have formed off comments that were just observations about the work in progress. Or even a quick hello to let me know there's interest, I'll take it :)
> 
> This is the farthest I've gone into a work without having an endgame in mind too. So I hope I'm not just stalling out and throwing shit at the wall to see what sticks. But I guess healing a little of Mandy's past hurts before we either move onto a post-apo or kill them all, is probably a nice thing to do.
> 
> Thinking we'll pull up stakes in the next chapter and get out of dodge. I probably won't write over the weekend, but next week in theory should be a good week for writing. Fall has stolen the show and it's getting grey and rainy already so heavy works will probably become the norm again soon. So I guess if we don't want dark and stormy all over my desktop then tell me now or I'll most likely end with a bang on a cliff in the middle of nowhere and move back to my comfort zone of breaking the characters down emotionally.
> 
> And I think I already mentioned that I think Mickey would accept his sexuality much more willingly when we take him out of canon before the corrective rape. And hate himself a hell of a lot less. I don't really remember when Mandy's incestuous rape was happening, but I feel like it was pretty early in the show. Maybe S2? So we're not ignoring that. And hopefully treating it with the respect that kind of trauma deserves even if we're not going super deep into it.


	16. Water Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration gates have opened and I think I have chosen a path for this.

Water Therapy

 

“So you guys takin’ off?” she’s got her running blade on and looks like she might have washed her hair, free of a ball cap. Mandy thinks she’s probably pretty. If she ever smiled, like a real smile.

“Yeah, wish you’d come,” she responds quietly. She hasn’t spent as much time with this woman as the guys have, but they both seem to respect her. Which is rare. And she seems to know a lot of shit about nature and living off the land. 

She shrugs, “nah, you don’t need a tour guide. Just head northwest and when you hit the base of the mountains you’ll know it, the lake’s on the other side. Ain’t much between here and there but a bunch of trees. One road in, one road out. Can’t get lost.”

Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning, Mandy smiles, “sounds simple.”

“So, uh, give this shit to your brother,” holding a paper grocery bag out in offering.

“Give it to him yourself.”

“Nah. Goodbyes ain’t really my thing. Just, uh, take care of each other. And when you start seein’ all those green lights in the sky it ain’t time yet. That’s just the Northern Lights,” she winks and before Mandy can say anything she’s turning away.

“Thank you,” calling after her form as it takes off across the street, disappearing into the tree-line, “Northern Lights,” she sighs to herself, “of course.”

She’s still watching the trees when the guys make their way out of the house, “ready?” blinking away the weird sting of emotions that’s building up behind her eyes. Handing the bag over.

“Fuck’s this?”

She shrugs, “Lou said to give it to you.”

“Where is she?”

“She took off into the woods. Said to take care.”

Both sets of eyes flit over to the other side of the street, Ian’s remaining there for a long moment like he’ll be able to find her through the greenery and wish her luck or ask her again to come along. Mickey’s looking in the paper bag with a hint of embarrassment before he thumbs his nose, pulls out a paper map, closes the bag and announces, “guess we know where we’re goin’ anyway,” unfolding it, “got all the backcountry trails and shit on it. Fuck, she’s got an x on it, s’pose that’s the cliff in the brochure.”

A hand-written note falls out, flutters to the ground. Ian snags it, “looks like she’s got our trip all planned out,” he’s smiling, scanning over the letter, “check out the big lake first. You won’t regret it. Then take the river trail and you’ll find your ticket stamped to the best seat in the house for the end of the world. There ain’t no sense in being afraid when it comes, you live and you die and you can’t do both at the same time. Maybe in the next life, huh? ’Til then, hope you find your little place in Heaven before the devil knows you’re dead.”

His eyes are kind of misty when he scans over the tree-line again, folding the paper to slide it into his pocket. 

“What else is in there?” Mandy wonders even though it’s pretty damn clear Mickey is trying to avoid sharing.

He shrugs and she punches his arm, “the fuck Mandy? She said to give it to me, right?”

“Yeah, but she didn’t say the rest of us couldn’t look at it.”

He narrows his eyes at her, like he’s trying to decide if she’ll tease him for it. Sighing and finally opening the bag, revealing a few items made out of some kind of bark, “made ‘em the other day,” his hand disappears into the bag, grabbing a journal and handing it over to Ian. His eyes won’t make contact and his cheeks are flushed just the tiniest bit, “figure you can take some fuckin’ notes or some fuck along the way. You wanna, leave a time capsule or somethin’, you know, in case in like a few hundred years someone finds our bones and wonders how the fuck we died in the middle of nowhere,” thumbing at his nose, “I don’t know.”

His eyes won’t rise and Mandy is dying inside to tease the hell out of him, but it’s so fucking cute she can’t do it. And Ian’s face is brighter than any kid on Christmas Mandy has ever seen. Not that she’s seen anything more than her own family at Christmas and it was never anything to write home about, but whatever. He’s pretty fucking adorable, is what he is. 

“I do, um,” he’s smiling so big it looks like his face is going to burst, “wanna do that. That’d be pretty cool Mick. Thank you.”

“Wow,” she shakes her head to herself, turning away to the other side of the truck. Supposing she’ll give them some private time to make-out for a minute. What a fucking ridiculous combination, but somehow perfect. She’s laughing to herself by the time they come over and climb in, wiping off the smirk before either of them look at her, “you fuckin’ ready for this shit? Or you wanna stay here instead? Got enough butt oil to last you our last week on this Earth?”

Both middle fingers respond, she doesn’t have to be able to see their faces to know they’re both blushing either. Taking time to look out their respective windows and pretend they don’t feel exposed over her accusations.

————

Two lane highway, empty of cars. Trees reaching across like hands clasped loosely over a beer gut. Alternating between shade and sun. A few tiny towns scattered along the route. American flags standing proud on the porches. Hand painted mailboxes along the shoulder. Ditches overgrown with wildflowers and long grass that looks like it would tickle her shins. A tiny white church that looks like it’s straight out of a 1930’s based movie. Two children playing in a playground. It’s as though time has stood still here. Or the news hasn’t reached this far out yet. A woman hanging clothes on a clothesline as the breeze lifts the sheets appearing like a ghost is running under the lines. A teenager riding a BMX bike down the shoulder of the road, a bag of groceries balanced on the handle bars. No one even seems to notice them driving by, she’s starting to think they’re invisible, or this is all a strange dream and she’ll wake up with Terry’s breath on her neck, when a little girl riding her bike up and down her driveway stops at the end of it to wave. A big gap-toothed grin, her hands both waving wildly.

Mandy rolls the window down and waves back. Wondering if she ever felt that exited about anything as a child. 

The inside of the truck has fallen silent. Ian’s hands folded in his lap, with the hand bound journal at his fingertips. The scenery has stretched on, winding roads and more trees. A few rocks that have been blasted to make room for the road, rising up around them like claws reaching out of the ground. Brown signs marking camping spots, national forests, lakes, hiking trails. 

She leans her head against the glass, waiting for all the greens and browns of the trees, the grass, the yellows and whites of the flowers, the oranges and reds spotted throughout to all blur into one of those paintings she liked to look at in that big art book that somehow ended up at their house. And she can’t remember now the why or the who of it. Maybe it was their mother’s. She used to like to trace her hand over the watercolor images and pretend she was the one walking through the meadow with her arm extended, her hand floating in a sea of tall grass. She smiles now thinking about it, about the beach grass and the sand beneath her toes. Reaching for her pack at her feet, producing a bag of rocks and a few pieces of beach glass she collected in the last week or so. 

She remembers what Lou told her about the stone, the fossil from once upon a time. The second one she found, she told her the rest of the history, her thumb sliding back and forth and back and forth over the rock. ‘Named after an Ottawa Indian Chief, Petosegay, which means sunbeams of promise. And if you’re into all the chakra shit then it also is like some third eye business and enhances awareness of emotions, s’posed to be some shit about protecting your mind and keeping infections at bay too’, she had smiled then and asked if Mandy wanted the rock polished. 

There’s only one rock in her bag now and she realizes she must have forgot. Or maybe it’s in the bottom of the bag she gave Mickey. Does it really matter anymore anyway? She lifts the stone to get a closer look at it, wondering how something so old could still exist. After how many millions of years it could start out as something so small and delicate. And now? As the world shifted and it got stuck in the tides and buried by rocks and billions of gallons of water, carried far away from home, and now it’s a rock. Strong and smooth, not a single crack or fissure in it’s armor. That’s a pretty fucking cool rock.

—————

“I don’t wanna fuckin’ jinx us or nothin’,” Mickey sighs, shrugging his pack on his shoulders, scanning the truck, “but I feel like all this fire power is goin’ to go to waste.”

Ian shrugs, his eyes lingering on the machine gun turret, “I guess we could just shoot. Whatever the fuck we want, level some trees and rip up a bunch of Earth before it all goes to shit.”

Mickey’s eyes are lighting up at the thought, catching on a chipmunk running up a tree, watching it for a long moment then shrugging, “nah, kinda like the woods the way it is. Guess we don’t gotta ruin it before Mother Nature or Space or the government gets to, huh?”

“Holy shit Mick,” Ian smirks a little, surprise in his eyes, “you? Not wanting to shoot shit?”

“Well, yeah, but it’s different when it’s a pile of garbage set up in the abandoned buildings, or a target under the L, or fuckever, maybe a fuckin’ shithead person who deserves it,” his gaze falls on Mandy when he thumbs his nose, “different when it’s nature and some unsuspecting tree-rats.”

“Tree-rats?” Mandy wonders, “chipmunks?”

“What-munks?”

“Like Alvin, Simon, Theodore? Chipmunks.”

“Fuckever those are,” with his best tough guy shrug, readjusting the pack on his shoulders, “let’s fuckin’ go.”

“Yeah before you start munching granola and wearing socks with sandals,” Ian teases.

“Or stop wearing deodorant,” Mandy chimes in, starting down the trail after him.

Ian’s head turns like she just told him the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, “I love how he smells.”

“Well you must like something about him. I guess his distinct odor is,” shrugging, “it’s not his worst quality.”

—————

“Fuck me,” Mickey smiles, his eyes all wide when he looks down the steep decline from where they’ve chosen to sleep for the night, “look at that fuckin’ lake.”

“Holy shit,” is Ian’s breathy response.

“Makes you feel really damn small,” Mandy sighs. The grass disappears quickly, falling off into a rocky and sandy path that looks like it’s a straight drop but clearly has been walked down enough times for a trail to be packed leading to a rocky shoreline. Big, sharp, flat monsters to the right lining the water and their dark damp heads peaking up from the waves as far out as Mandy can see. To the left the rocks seem to gradually grow smaller, more broken by waves and washed down to smoother more manageable boulders. Inlets of sand here and there until further down it breaks into a sandy beach. 

The water itself is dark blue and foreboding. The waves are breaking on the rocks, smashing the shore with so much force Mandy isn’t certain how they aren’t all broken. Water splashing and creating a wall, then falling back into the lake and being swept away. 

“It looks really fucking cold.”

“Uh, yeah. Let’s set up the tent, and get a fire started,” Ian decides, “then after we get settled in and make sure we’ve got everything, we’ll go exploring.”

The hike back from the truck was only about a mile of easy ground, not a person in sight. Not a vehicle in miles. Maybe humankind stopped existing already.

—————

“I sure in the fuck ain’t swimmin’ in this cold ass shit,” his arms are crossed over his bare chest, he only made it to mid-shin in the clear water.

“Suit yourself,” Mandy shrugs, taking a firmer grip on Ian’s hand as they navigate their way across a slippery rock to the section of sandy bottom beyond, “but if you do come this way when you put on your big-boy pants, then be careful ‘cause this shit is slippery as fuck.”

“I fuckin’ see that,” she can barely hear his grumble over the wind and waves. The cool air rising off the lake, mingling with the scent of nature and the heat of a summer evening. Sun blindingly bright as it starts it’s descent on the horizon.

Ian’s hand is warm, reassuring. She wonders now at all the times she fucked his brother, Lip never once held her hand. She’s not certain when she convinced herself, or maybe it was her father who convinced her, that she’d never be worth a dime. Just a warm body.   
He stops at the bottom, holding both hands out to her. A reassuring nod when she grips him. She feels herself smile. And trust. 

—————

Floating on her back, bobbing with the waves, watching the sky with a few random puffy clouds floating by. Knowing Ian is right beside her, feeling the motion of the waves and his subtle movements disturbing the water. Heart beating slow and steady, whooshing through her ears with the sound of Lake Superior. Lou told them about the lake, how it gets angry quickly and hypothermia can creep in even on the hottest of summer days in water this cold. She said a gale on this lake can take down a freighter like it’s no more than a child’s toy boat. That even expert swimmers are leery of passing into deep waters. 

With her warnings, and Mandy’s swimming level, they’re staying close to shore. Not going out alone. Being out over her head and caught in a current in Lake Michigan was enough to make her see that drowning all alone in an unfamiliar place is not how she wants to die. 

She understands that whole water therapy thing she heard of. Like it’s symbolic of being in the womb or something. Time blurs and motion becomes nonexistent. 

She’s only ripped from her reverie when she hears a crash and a string of curse words that can only be accredited to her brother’s dirty mouth. She feels Ian standing up beside her at the exact moment. Eyes finding Mickey where he’s sitting at the base of a rock with a pained expression and mouth moving in the distinct form of ‘fuck’ over and over between ‘ow fuck’ like it’s all his lips are capable of doing.

“What happened?” in unison, rushing their way out of the water.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, ow, motherfucker.”

He’s kind of balled into himself, the body’s natural reaction to physical pain. It’s weird, it’s not a Mickey kind of thing, not even when he got shot. Either time, she guesses, she didn’t witness the store shooting but Ian told her he was relatively nonplused about it, more pissed than anything. 

“You were fuckin’ right,” admitting through gritted teeth, “fuckers are slippery.”

“Shit, your ass?”

“Yeah fuckface, fuck.”

Mandy’s eyes fall across the face of the rock he must have skidded down, a blood trail starting about midway down and getting lapped away by the water that he’s now sitting partially in. The blood rising from beneath him, mingling in the waves like a little red snake.

“Shit Mick, I think you ripped off a scab,” her hand lands on his arm, giving him a little tug towards the ground in case he tries to get up. It doesn’t stop him from twisting to look beside him.

“Maybe two,” he agrees, “fuck, that fuckin’ hurts more than the damn shot did.”

“Well yeah,” Ian’s hand has landed on Mickey’s knee, “you had adrenaline keeping pain away the first time. And those scabs were probably still pretty damn thick, I mean they were protecting gunshot wounds.”

“No fuck.”

A little temper flares in Ian’s eyes but he bites it back, knowing Mickey is only lashing out because he can’t stand to be vulnerable, “alright, well, how about we get you out of the water and get a look at the damage?”

He’s like damn child after having a temper tantrum. Trying like hell to keep up the angry facade but the human contact and the concerned glances are chinking away at his armor. Finally decided he’s allowed to accept the help to his feet, letting either of them take an arm and guide him over the rocks to a sandy enough spot that he can lay on his belly. Blood having dripped down his thigh by the time he’s taken the steps. Shit, his swim shorts are ripped and when Ian pushes them aside it reveals three of the scabs ripped off, blood pooling up and around them, dripping over the edges of the wounds, and pretty much his entire cheek is scraped. 

“This one still has a partial scab,” Ian’s finger motioning towards the one further inland. But the two closer to his hip are fucked, “lost two butt-plugs completely.”

“You ain’t funny firecrotch.”

His freckled hand squeezes down tight on Mick’s freckled shoulder, “I know. Well I guess best plan is to get you back to camp, Mandy stays with you, I’ll go get the med kit out of the truck.”

“Get me back to camp. I ain’t some wounded pup here, I can fuckin’ walk just fuckin’ fine. You idiots are goin’ to the truck together. Fuckin’ use the buddy system. I got my Ruger, ain’t no one back here anyway. Could be someone found the truck by now, two armed idiots are better than one if that’s the case.”

“Mick,” knowing what this is about. I’m yours and you’re mine, but, “we are not leaving you alone with a bleeding ass. Ian will be fine. If someone’s at the truck he’ll just come back slowly and quietly and leave it be.”

“Or I’ll shoot them before they get a chance to see me coming,” he smirks.

“No. Fuck you both. Neither one of you go anywhere alone. That’s fuckin’ final,” his brows are up when his head turns and his pointer finger is jabbing the air like a dare to question his authority. 

“Okay,” Ian nods his agreement, but Mandy doubts that’ll be the end of the discussion.


	17. A Delicate Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, an injury at this stage of the game.

A Delicate Balance

 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Laying on his side beside the fire, poking at it with a stick. Every rustle and swish of every leaf and every scampering fuckin’ tree-rat and even the waves smashing around on the rocks are a person approaching in his mind. A person. His father. His mother. His brothers. His buyers. Strangers. The eyeball goo guy. The attempted rapist. All of them. The stick in one hand the Ruger in the other. Reminding himself to breathe every fuckin’ second so he don’t die of a fuckin’ panic attack out here alone. Maybe he should have just convinced them to all head back to the truck, sleep out there tonight. Ain’t like it’ll be comfortable to sleep in a tent that’s rested on grass and dirt with this ass situation. Fuck. 

Fuck. A stick cracking under foot forces him to sit up, his eyes shifting through the shade of the trees, dusk starting to fall and those idiots still aren’t back. Fuck. It’s ‘cause they’re dead, isn’t it? Fuck. Shifting, scanning through trees and leaves and every fucking thing the forest has to offer and oh shit. Holy fucking shit. That’s a fucking bear. Oh fuck. He’s going to get ripped apart by a fucking bear. 

HIs heart leaps into his mouth. It hasn’t seen him yet. Fuck. It won’t see him. It won’t as long as he’s nice and still. And fuck. What is it about bears? That fuckin’ bear spray and shit. Or those damn bells. Or, fuck. He’s in the bear’s territory. 

It’s all just a delicate balance. Fuck. 

He takes a deep breath and waits. Bear’s gotta smell the fire. Ain’t like it’ll come closer. What was the shit on that damn show? They’re always obsessed with lighting a fire first to keep the predators away. Are bears even predators? They eat like berries and fish, right? Shit. Maybe the occasional human.

He watches it, it’s shiny black coat and dark eyes, the way it’s nose is twitching when a breeze rises. It stands on it’s back legs, oh shit, it’s a big fucking animal. Letting out a grunt that sure in the fuck don’t sound intimidating. Mickey’s grip tightens on the gun and he wonders how many shots it would take to take down a bear. Fuck, he should have brought a damn assault rifle. 

His breath halted in his lungs as he watches, the damn thing leans back against a tree. And starts rubbing. Like crazy. The tree is crackling and whining and the bear is grunting and rubbing, between it’s shoulder-blades, along it’s spine. Shit, then it just drops back to all fours and saunters off into the woods. And holy fuck he sure in the fuck hopes it don’t come across Mandy and Ian, and, “hey, we…”

“Holy fucking fuck,” it jolts out of his mouth and feels like his heart has lurched outward with it, with the gun still in his hand, but no longer ready to fire, his hand lands on his chest, trying like hell to keep the damn thing in there, “fuck,” all breathy, “fuck you two. Fuck. You see that bear?”

“What bear?”

“Jesus fucking Christ. I swear a fucking B52 could land in the middle of this campsite and neither of you would even notice. Fuck.”

They’re looking at each other now, “maybe he’s delirious,” Ian shrugs.

“Fuck you, I ain’t deirious. I saw a fuckin’ black bear stand up and scratch it’s fucking back on that tree,” his gun points the direction.

“Just now?”

“Yeah, like maybe five minutes ago, but it was there.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing there are no grizzlies around here.”

“The fuck is that s’posed to mean?”

“Black bears are pretty docile as far as bears go,” Mandy shrugs.

“The fuck you know that?”

“I read a few books on the beach while you guys were busy fucking each other’s brains out.”

“Fuck you.”

She shrugs, “that bookcase in the living room had all kinds of nature guides and shit.”

“Okay, look, Survivor, let’s patch this fucking hole up before a coyote or some fuck smells blood.”

“Yeah, that. How about before it gets dark and we’re using the firelight to see what we’re doing?”

“Fuckever.”

—————

“You comfortable?” his voice is barely a whisper against the back of Mickey’s head.

“How the fuck am I s’posed to be comfortable right now? Stuck between you two bony fucks, breathing on me and sweatin’ on me. Fuck,” his hand rises to grind into his eyes, “how the fuck I get stuck in the middle again?”

“‘Cause you’re so soft and loving and cuddly,” Mandy quips from about two inches away from his face where she’s lying on her back, one of her damn rocks in her hand, resting on her chest while she slides a finger back and forth over it.

“You and those fucking rocks.”

“You and your fucking accident-prone ass.”

“Good thing Ian has some ass-digging experience,” he says it before he can think it through. Not like she didn’t know, and didn’t mention that she knows, and fucknot, but the whole advertising bottoming thing, that’s kinda…

“Is juvie rapey?”

“Huh?”

“Well, Dad is always going on about prison and domination sex and stuff. Just wondering if juvie is the same way.”

He feels himself shrug, realizing that’s not a good response in the darkness. The flames from the fire still throwing shadows around inside the tent, but her face hasn’t even turned to look his way anyway, “kinda. Mostly just a bunch of scared kids. Pretendin’ they ain’t scared. I don’ know, guess, yeah, there’s some…” his fingers are in his eyes, rising spots that collide and shatter in his closed lids, “fuckever,” he’s pretending not to notice Ian’s grip on his body getting tighter, like he can hold him all together in case he wants to hash out all this shit. But he don’t, “nah. Not really.”

Now her head turns, eyes landing on his directly. Staring for what feels like forever, “okay,” she shrugs, “that Valium kicking in yet?”

“No.”

“We’ll have to keep an eye out for signs of infection,” Ian reminds him, for like the fifteenth time. Or maybe like the second time.

“I think we’ve established you like looking at my brother’s ass. So that’s your job buddy.”

—————

So being right next to that cold ass lake has it’s upside. It’s fuckin’ cool at night. Just kind of, but cool enough that it don’t feel like he’s suffocating in Ian’s grasp all night. It actually feels kind of good to have the body heat. 

Fuck, his ass hurts. Like worse than the first time. Maybe ripping off nature’s bandaid early is worse than the initial wound. Don’t help that it feels like his whole fucking ass is one giant bruise from landing on that rock. And what the fuck? They warned him and he watched them walking across it like they were fucking geriatrics. And he was bein’ careful. Well, he was sort of bein’ careful. Then his eyes got stuck on Ian’s body, the way it was resting on the water, just bobbing along with the waves like he could fuckin’ fall asleep there. He looked so much like he does right now. 

Mickey reaches out, tracing a finger over his jaw. Dope doesn’t even stir. Fuck. 

It’s fuckin’ early, but Mickey’s pretty damn sure he’s done sleepin’ for the night. Ass just throbbing away. And he was right about the grass and dirt not being comfortable. Fuck it, they’re here now and they’re gonna watch this shit when it comes. What are they down to now? Like six more days? 

He doesn’t mean to, but when he exhales it trembles. When it was just him, when that was all he was thinking about, it didn’t fuckin’ matter. But now that he’s thinkin’ about Mandy and he’s thinkin’ about Ian. Fuck, all of a sudden it matters. But there ain’t no way to change it. Ain’t no way that asteroid won’t cause total destruction. And Lou with her conspiracy theory. Fuck, that’s fucked up. 

He reaches for Ian’s hand, turned fully now to face him in the dimness of the early morning. The sound of the lake nearby, gentle and calm. The sound of his breathing. The same. Fuck it hurts to lay on this side. But it don’t hurt one fuckin’ bit to watch that dope sleeping like he ain’t got a care in the world.


	18. Hometown Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did we really leave Lou behind?

Hometown Hero

 

Lou pauses in her paper shuffling when she hears footsteps down the hall. He just went to sleep, but sometimes he’ll come back down to the kitchen for some water. The footsteps stop, but she turns the papers face down anyway. Sure, when she found out she had a half brother she decided it was time to sort through Billy’s stuff. Break into the lock box and see what else he’s been keeping from her for her entire fucking life. Billy being the hoarder that he is, there was plenty of bullshit in there. Some money, some Army documents, some old ass photos. And this. This manila envelope with blue prints of a bunker out in the Mojave Desert. Then some hand drawn sheets of the interior. Looks pretty fuckin’ sweet for a damn underground fortress. Bunk rooms, kitchen, bathroom, living space. Wellbeing room. Whatever the fuck that means. Must be pretty fuckin’ well ventilated. And stocked. They’ve got a note on it labelling the gold stash, and weapons closet. Fuck, that ain’t Billy’s handwriting. 

There’s also coordinates. And an address with ‘chopper access’ scrawled under it. Dumbasses, planning some kind of heist? On private property? Some fuckin’ nutcase who’s been building and stocking his bunker since the fuckin’ ’60’s or ’70’s. Just going to swoop in there in a helicopter and start shootin’ people? 

She’s smirking by the time the footsteps start back down the hall towards his bedroom. So much she wants to ask him but she knows now it’s all lost. Not a single part of it matters.

Tipping the bottle back for the last drop of tequila, stacking the papers neatly on the table and walking out the backdoor into the darkness. Maybe go for a stroll down the beach and look for the Northern Lights. Maybe sit on the porch and howl at the moon. Maybe go back for that seaplane and take another joy ride. Somethin’ about that kid’s face, she just couldn’t deny him. Dumb kids anyway.

The screen door screeches shut behind her and the sickening feeling like she’s not alone settles quickly over her. Cocking of a bolt-action rifle brings her focus to the edge of the porch, the shadows shifting the longer she looks. Hands up. Slowly. 

A deep inhale, and steady nerves, “the fuck you want?”

The laugh is immediately recognizable, “just wanted to catch up with an old friend.”

“Fuck,” the shadow steps into the light, bathed in yellow glow he’s just as beautiful as he always was. Or used to be, “thought you were dead.”

“Naw, you just wished I was dead,” he’s taking the steps up and another shadow is shifting behind him, “you remember Charlie, don’t you?”

“Of course. How could I forget Charlie, huh?” she takes one small step back, until her shoulder blade is against the doorframe. The hunting rifle is still out here, leaning against the siding. 

Her hand shifts, and he growls at her, “don’t you fucking dare go for that Browning, then I’d have to shoot you,” he still advancing, slowly, “I don’t want to shoot you, but if you go for that gun, I will.”

“Think you could Eddie?” her hand is falling in the air, a Fall leaf slowly fluttering to the grass.

“You never were a good listener,” the shot goes off.

Just a warning. First time in a long fuckin’ time she’s hoped that Billy wakes in the middle of the night. Hand back up in the air between them, “okay. I hear ya. No need to wake the whole town.”

He spits a tobacco stream over the rail, “whole town,” with a sneer, “you gonna invite me in? C’mon I just want to catch up.”

She realizes now that he’s mostly dragging his right leg behind him, “fuck happened to your leg?”

He snorts, “ask you the same fucking thing but lord only knows what kind of lie I’ll get this time.”

“Guess you’ll only know if you ask. Care to come inside? Share a drink before you head on down the road.”

“Just like last time? Share a drink, a bed, and a long goodbye in the mornin’?”

“Nah, this goodbye is gonna happen tonight.”

“Fuck, I always have loved a struggle,” he motions inside with the barrel of the shotgun.

She turns, making sure to give him her back. Just so he knows, she ain’t afraid of him. And she sure in the fuck ain’t afraid to die. Right here in the house she grew up in. She removes three shot glasses from the cabinet over the sink, a bottle from the top of the fridge.

“Keep the movement to a minimum.”

“Sure, whatever you say,” her eyes fall on Charlie’s face, not able to meet Eddie’s gaze just yet. Hiding her surprise while she pours the shots on the counter beside her, “I know you didn’t lose that eye in the line of duty, did ya?”

The right corner of his lips twitch like he’s about to smile, then decides otherwise, “the blind receive sight and the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, and the poor have the gospel preached to them.”

“Guess when you receive your sight and walk hand in hand with the lord you can give ‘im my regards,” she raises the shot glass to the sight of his twisted smile and tips it back. 

Refilling the glasses as her eyes flit across Eddie’s face, he’s eyeing her and she has to remind herself that he ain’t the kid that used to wait for her at the mailbox. Walk to the bus stop down at his parents’ store and chatter on about gas vs diesel and two-stroke vs four. The annoyance of traction control and the hatred of anti-lock brakes. He’s not the same kid that kept her sane the year Anna died. He’s not the same kid that kissed her under the moonlight on the beach the night they put her mother in the ground. He’s not the same kid that held her hand, admitting his love for her in the middle of fucking snowstorm when they were holed up in the deer blind that used to belong to old Mr Maki. And he sure in the fuck ain’t the kid that told her with so much loving support that she should go, she should just go, get out of here, make a name for herself, make something of herself, something great that the whole town could be proud of. 

He ain’t that kid anymore. And she sure in the fuck don’t know this man standing in her kitchen. 

“You see your mother yet?”

He’s relaxed his grip on the rifle, keeping his eyes mostly on her hands that are flat on the counter now. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Charlie fingering the pistol tucked into his belt. 

“My mother,” he snorts, “you wanna know that last thing my mother said to me? Do you?”

She shrugs, “only if you fuckin’ want me to.”

He reaches for the bottle left open on the counter, “my mother,” he’s smiling a twisted sort of smile and makes Lou’s heart clench in her chest, guess it’s still true that his pain is her pain, “told me I was the most disgusting creature she had ever laid eyes on. She couldn’t believe she had given birth to such a horrible human being. That looking at me made her sick,” his eyes linger on Lou’s, that beautiful teakwood has turned to rotten bug-infested pine, “and you, you,” he shakes his head, tipping the bottle back, “little miss high and mighty. You fought the same fuckin’ war we did. You did ten times the damage we did. But you, you’re the hometown hero, ain’t you? Flyin’ your fuckin’ rescue mission to cleanse your fuckin’ soul,” another chug, nearly half the bottle gone, “did it work, huh? How’s your fucking soul now Lou? Huh?”

Hometown hero, “fuck you,” he knows what she came home to. He fucking knows that she was alone. She had nothin’ but a father sliding further into insanity every fucking day and the occasional visit from his own parents while he was busy doing contract work, and whatever all that entailed. 

“I think you’re gettin’ to her Eddie,” Charlie chimes in from his post near the door.

Can’t get to something that don’t exist anymore, “you come here to catch up? Or you come here to fuck me one last time before the world ends? You both want a go? Or you too filled up with God’s love now Charlie?” her gaze gets stuck on his empty eye socket and she suddenly remembers that dumb naive kid talkin’ about eyeball goo, “you find God before or after you lost your eye?”

“I never had to find God Louise. I never lost him. The rest of the world, all you sinners and abominations, you lost souls. You shall not be spared, you shall…”

“Rot in fuckin’ Hell,” she smirks it but his hand comes up quickly, smacking her hard, hard enough that she tastes blood, “that was a little uncalled for,” spitting at him.

She knew it would only anger him further, but she’s ready for a scuffle. It’s been awhile.

“That’s enough,” Eddie cuts in, “that’s enough. Go wait outside Charlie.”

He shoots Eddie a glare but he backs away, some promises of righteousness on his tongue. Shaking her head to herself with something nearing a grin right before she feels Eddie’s hands at her throat, backing her against the fridge. He’s close to her face and she remembers that way he used to linger over her, just watching her for a long moment after their lips had parted. Somewhere in there, isn’t he? His grip tightens at her throat and her hands don’t rise, she doesn’t claw at him, she doesn’t fight for breath. Focus remaining on him even once the edges have started to blur.

“That’s what I fucking thought,” he smirks at her, his voice sounding distant over the rushing in her ears. His face becoming the blur and falling into darkness.

—————

When she wakes on the floor, ears ringing, head spinning. Blinking at fog and blur, taste of metal in her mouth. She drags herself to seated on the floor, back against the fridge. 

The reminder, it’ll all be over soon, as she hears her father’s footsteps in the hall, “Valentine? You home?”

It’ll all be over soon. As she forces herself to stand, palms on the counter. Eyes scanning the kitchen, “Valentine?”

Back to him, “yeah Billy, it’s me.”

It’ll all be over soon. A deep breath, focus shifting, growing more clear, landing on a Petoskey stone when the sun bounces off the glazed surface of it. The stone she cradled in wire and hung on a necklace chain. Damn it, she forgot to put it in the bag with the rest of the shit those kids got her to do. 

She watches her hand rise, reaching out to run a finger across the smooth stone. Remembering the way the girl’s eyes were all lit up, hanging off every word she spoke like a damn legend about an Indian Chief was the most amazing story she had ever heard. All three of those naive kids, so bright eyed and ready for the universe to come to a screeching halt.

She remembers herself at that age, thinking she was mostly invincible. That she could forget the life she led if she could get out. That she could forget the sound of her dead sister’s voice, and her dead mother’s smile if she put some distance behind her. How she thought her dad was right, that someday she’d fly. Back when she thought love was real and it was in Eddie's eyes every time he looked at her. 

When her hand drops away from the stone, it slides across her face to wipe away the tears she didn’t realize could still fall. 

—————

“So, tell me,” she sighs, taking a sip of coffee, watching Billy do the same, “what’s this about?” flipping the paper, face up for him to scan.

He takes a long moment, long enough that she’s certain he won’t remember anything about it. When he looks across the table at her, he’s smiling, “you know what this is about Valentine. You’re the one who talked me out of it. Told me that landing a chopper on property belonging to some crazy prepper was a surefire way to get killed.”

“So you’ve decided then?” she runs her finger along the blueprint, “you won’t go on this job?”

“No,” his hand falls, covering hers on the table and she feels an angry jolt rush through her body from the point of contact, “not if you don’t want me to Valentine. I’d give up all the gold in the world if it means staying here with you.”

“What would you say if I changed my mind?

Uncertainty creeps into his eyes, but they remain on hers, “you want me to do this?”

“How much gold we talkin’? Enough for some of the beachfront property across the way?”

“The Maki’s place?”

“No, about a mile down the shore…”

“And then some. Enough gold to buy us this entire town and all the land around it. Enough gold to spend the winters somewhere warm, California maybe, we could,” his eye contact falters, his hand retracts.

“Wait, Billy. Look at me. Focus on me. I need to know more about this place. I need to know everything about this job, about this Janine Cody, about everyone else in her crew, and I need to know exact locations. And then,” she reaches out, stroking his knuckles, “then we’ll retire to an island somewhere. Just us, just the two of us and the girls."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think she's after the gold, or after the bunker? Does she want to survive? Would she go grab our merry band of Southside trash and take them along for the ride?
> 
> Think that's the last we'll see of Eddie and Charlie? 
> 
> Shit, I have no idea... ;)


	19. Not Ready To Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to our band of trash that just ain't so merry anymore...

Not Ready To Die

 

“Holy fuck, we made it,” it felt like it took about two years, but they found the spot. The place they’re going to watch the world fall apart. Or maybe not see anything at all. Maybe they’ll just choke to death on the dusty air, or get crushed by falling rocks when the reverberation of the impact catches up to them. Either way, they’ll do it together. 

He squeezes Mickey’s hand where they’ve been entwined between them for nearly the entire hike. Spending time on the beach, exploring the rock formations and following some trails that led along the shore for the last few days. Sleeping in the tent with Mickey in his arms every night, his nose pressed into the back of his head. Mickey was none too pleased to find one of Mandy’s rocks underneath his body every morning. It was like she stuck it there on purpose, the same one that she had in her hand every night when she fell asleep. The one that used to be some kind of coral. 

She took one of the rocks and minerals books from the mansion, idly flipping through it’s pages while they sat around the fire. Then during the day, scouring the beach for anything valuable. Not that it matters anymore, but Ian supposes she’s probably never had the luxury of collecting anything. At least Ian and Lip could convince Monica to buy them comic books whenever she was around, enough that they had quite the collection going by the time they outgrew them. If they ever truly outgrew them. 

When Mickey stops scanning the scenery, the greens and browns, listening to the noises surrounding them; his head tilts to look up at Ian. Fuck, his eyes are a little foggy. Ian’s free hand reaches out, landing on his forehead, “shit, Mickey, why didn’t you say something?” it’s barely a whisper.

He shrugs, motioning towards Mandy, “we only got three days left firecrotch,” quiet, gaze not leaving Ian’s face. 

“Yeah, but we have some shit in the truck still, we could’ve cleaned out the wounds, and I don’t know, more Tylenol.”

“I already took Tylenol, man. It’s whatever at this point,” his fingers are latched onto Ian’s hand like he’s all he has left in this world. 

“Mick, I, I don’t want, it’s,” his voice is shaky and tears are springing to his eyes, “pain, I don’t want you to be in pain, it’s…”

“The end of the world tough guy, ain’t gonna come pain-free,” his hand lands on Ian’s cheek, “guess if I got a fever makin’ me all foggy and detached then it ain’t gonna hurt that much, huh?”

Turning his face into his palm, lips to sweat filmed skin, “I love you Mick. I just hope, you know, I hope I go first.”

“Fuck you, ain’t happenin’,” smirking, eyes falling to Ian’s lips, “c’mere.”

—————

“Jesus Christ Mickey,” the hole closest to his hip is leaking pus, red streaks spreading outwards, “why the fuck…”

“Ian,” his head turns, brows high, “you got probably ten minutes ’til Mandy comes back with the water. You gonna get on me?”

“No, I’m not. You’re…”

“Ain’t got much time man, if it’s that fuckin’ gross to look at then just cover it up. Get on with the show.”

How the fuck did it get this bad this quick? It was only like two days ago last time he checked it over, and it was fucking fine. How the fuck did he not notice a fever? He should have been able to feel that at night, at night with Mickey pressed against his chest and his cheek resting on his heart. 

“That’s not it. Mick, you could be grotesque looking and I’d still want to fuck you. But I don’t want to fuck you if you’re not feeling good.”

“I feel fuckin’ fine firecrotch, just get on me already. You’re wastin’ way too much goddamn time right now.”

It’s not at all intimidating. Ian’s eyes catch on the curve of his back, following his spine to the back his head, dropping to his shoulder. Constellation of freckles beckoning to Ian’s lips. He doesn’t fight it, that pull, that magnetic pull, but instead of pressing against his ass, instead of working over him, he pulls his boxers back up. Arms around his chest, pulling and leaning until he gives in and lets himself down to the ground in Ian’s grasp. On his side on top of the sheet they took from the mansion. Wounded side up, Ian climbs over him, lies down facing him. Hand across his jaw, sliding over his stubbled cheek and through his hair. Bringing their faces close together, waiting until Mickey’s lids flutter shut to press a kiss against his lips. A slow, tender kiss. Not progressing to tongue, not even open mouthed. Forehead to burning forehead, a deep breath of him. 

Turns out, he’s not ready. He’s not ready to let this go. He’s seventeen, he’s been entangled in in the body of the only boy he’s ever loved every night for the last few weeks. He’s been in his presence, learning his personality tics that he never noticed before. Memorizing every pattern of his voice, every line and every freckle on his skin. His laugh, a sound he’d never really heard before, never heard it back in Chicago. In Chicago where he was too beaten down to embrace anything that made him happy. All it’s taken is some distance, only a couple weeks, and he’s shed that skin so easily. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, his mouth so close to Mickey’s. Hands sliding through his hair, cupping the back of his head to keep him as close as possible. 

—————

“He’s not doing well, is he?” Mandy wonders, her head tilting back to where he’s asleep near the fire. Bringing a smoke to her lips and taking a long drag.

Ian watches the white cloud passing her lips, her eyes won’t meet his and he knows, he knows Mickey doesn’t want her to know. But he can’t fucking lie to her, “no,” it shakes when he meant it to sound nonchalant, “but he’s…”

“He’s being Mickey about it,” she cuts him off, “fuck, I should have noticed.”

“Don’t do that, if he said something, or if…”

“No, fuck that. Ian, he has never once said a damn word when he feels like shit. Between the beatings Dad handed him and all the nights spent icing his knuckles after a run. And then every time he did get sick? Like hell we were going to get him down to the clinic. He’d just close himself in his room and sweat and shiver until he could fake feeling normal. Even that time he had strep throat, that fucker. It was Dad, of all fucking people, that finally dragged him out for treatment. I should have seen it in his eyes.”

“Yeah, well I should have felt it like, fucking everywhere. But he’s always so damn hot.”

A half smirk rises and she’d crack a dirty joke if it wasn’t a possible life or death situation here, “fuck. Alright, you know how to clean out an infection?”

“No, not that deep.”

“Me neither.”

“But if you stay here with him, I’ll run back to the truck, grab the med kit and at least we can make it more comfortable for him. I mean, if it’s three days, it’s,” he shrugs, his voice trailing off, watching her eyes reflecting the blue sky back at him. 

“How do you really think this is going to end? Are we just being idiots standing here waiting?”

“What other option do we have? Run back to Chicago? It’s probably fucking chaos and dead bodies all over the cities. And sure, maybe a bunker could survive a nuclear war, or an asteroid, but a basement surrounded by sandbags? Fuck,” his hands rise, pulling through his hair, “even if we did by some miracle find a bunker, then what? We don’t exactly have any survival skills. Sure, ROTC taught me some shit, but nothing like how to live off the land with the land is not livable. It’s pretty fucking clear,” his voice trembles, “that we’re going to die. Whether it’s the universe or the government or eventually the orbit shift burning us alive. I just,” frustration is clouding his vision, stopping to take a deep breath, “fuck. I just want it to be quick. And I want him,” his hand darts out, pointing in the direction of his motionless form, “to be okay,” a tear escapes, trailing down his cheek. Angrily swatting at it, “I’m going back to the truck. I’ll come back with as many supplies as I can. If all we can do is make him comfortable, then that’s what we do.”

He makes it around the first bend in the trail before he loses his nerve, sitting heavily on a boulder. Face in hands, letting himself sob. He doesn’t know what to do, he has no fucking clue what to do. He doesn’t want to live a single breath longer than Mickey, doesn’t want to go a second in this lifetime without his presence. His laugh, his smile, his scent, his voice, the way he looks at Ian. Ian’s not an idiot, Mickey might think he’s sound asleep every morning when he rolls to face him and watches him sleep. But he’s not. Not every morning anyway. He’s been doing it since they left Chicago. Ian feels it the moment his weight shifts, the moment his finger traces a line down his face, the moment his eyes make contact with his closed ones. 

Mickey can act as fucking tough as he wants, but he’s not ready to die either.

“Fuck,” wiping his face, getting to his feet, taking the walk back to the campsite, “change of plans,” he tells Mandy firmly, “we’re dragging him back to a town, closest one we can find, somebody has to have some kind of medical training. We can trade, something, anything, I don’t know. Maybe since everyone in this fucking forest is acting like life isn’t about the change, maybe there’s still a clinic open somewhere,” as he’s speaking, he’s packing up the supplies they got out, taking down the camp they set up. He takes a long gulp of Mandy’s water that’s still pretty fucking hot from boiling over the fire, “drink what you think you’ll need for the hike out, dump the rest on the fire. Looks like we’re carrying him.”

Her eyes are on him, the china cup at her lips, hiding most of her face, but her eyes are bright. A silent agreement, yes, this is the right thing to do. For all three of us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heat's getting slowly cranked. Time for our horny teenagers to start really thinking about life at this point.


	20. A Sky On Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey watching the world end.

A Sky On Fire

 

Darkness. The smell of the woods. Stars, then leaves and branches reaching out to cover them. The sky isn’t black. It’s oddly light. A greenish tinge to it. Disappearing again.

Swaying. Gentle back and forth. The blanket against his skin is hot. Damp with sweat. His body feels like it’s a million miles away. But he’s floating. Floating high above the Earth.

He’s fucking hot. Way too hot. Everything around him muted. Is he in the water again? Is that it, it’s not a blanket? It’s the water, isn’t it? ‘Mick, you’re floating!’ 

Just like that. It’s so simple. 

The sky reappears beyond the blanket of darkened leaves. Of branches reaching across his eyes to block out the stars. They flicker, blink. 

That greenish tinge brightens. Spreads, becomes neon green. Half the sky.

This is it. This is the end. He’s already halfway there. Fuck, where’d the last three days go? The last thing he remembers is Ian’s face against his, the feeling that everything was okay. That they were all okay as long as they were together.

The green lights become blindingly bright, casting an eery glow all around. And he stops moving beneath the sky. A tiny ripple in the water around him pushes his body back and forth. 

The lights fade. Each one a piano key being played across the sky. Every touch of a skilled finger shoving it into darkness. Disappearing from sight when it’s final note is sung, carried out across the breeze and receding to nothing. The stars flash and the water around him moves. The sky moves, the branches reappear, the dark cover of leaves blocks out the light of the moon.

It remains dark and he’s still floating. Swaying gently with every wave. Fluid sloshing in his ears. The lake is not refreshing, not tonight. Trapping his body heat against him, he feels like he’s suffocating. Is the world shaking around him? Earthquakes sending ripples through the water, pushing his body from side to side? Are they floating together? Have they been swept away? 

He tries to raise his head, but it’s too heavy. The air too think. He can’t breathe. He can’t hear. A current has grasped him and it’s pulling him under. His hands are flailing at his sides, trying, reaching, wanting to find another hand. Either hand. Any hand. Just to know, to know he’s not alone. He’s not alone watching the world end. He’s not alone as those greens lights flash across the sky again, dancing and brightening and throwing a globe of blue and purple dust into the stars. A sky on fire. A world on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or is it just the Northern Lights?


	21. Made The Right Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright Lou, what's your goal here?
> 
> I apologize for the ethnic slurs ahead.

Made The Right Choice

 

She sits down quietly on the edge of her father’s bed, a shaky hand reaching out to stroke through his hair, “I’m sorry Billy,” whispering softly. Guilt cutting her soul in half as she gets to her feet. She’s leaving him behind. She can’t be burdened by a man falling further away from sanity every day. If she’s going to make it to the desert before the nukes start falling she has to move now. And she has to move quickly. 

The truck is packed, all the supplies she can carry. Gas tank full. She moves in the cover of darkness, not knowing if Eddie and Charlie are hanging around. Not knowing anymore what they’re capable of. Reminding herself again that he is not the boy she grew up with, she is stronger than that, she can leave him behind, she can see him for what he is instead of trying now to find him. To find him and bring him along. To survive this storm in a bunker in California, to survive this together. Together, the one thing they promised they’d be for the rest of their lives.

She knows she won’t be alone. She knows she won’t be the first one there. She only hopes the Cody family has, at the very least, taken the bunker and killed the rest. She don’t know them, but if there’s any chance of getting in there without spilling blood it’d be the fact that one of them is her brother. A family connection. The envelope of Billy’s papers are in her pack. Her pack the only passenger she’ll have on this journey. Along with the copy of the birth cert and the photos. 

On the way out the door she grabs the necklace. Fuck it. If that hippy, mystic bullshit is right, won’t hurt to have a stone that aides healing. 

The screen door, it’s familiar screech, the porch under foot, the squeal of the boards protesting her body weight, “yeah, yeah whatever,” she sighs, “ain’t nothing more than it’s ever been.”

Letting her eyes adjust to the green hued darkness, the glow cast off by the explosive collisions of nothing more than tiny particles in the atmosphere. An owl back in the edge of the field sounding it’s low foreboding call in the night. The echo of the waves across the road. Breeze rustling the trees. 

Nothing human-made. She takes a deep breath and few more steps. Edge of the porch. Taking the chance to peer around the side of the house. Waiting for a movement, for a reflection of light, for a sound to indicate an intruder. Nothing. 

Taking the steps down. Hand on the truck door when the familiar feel of a shotgun barrel is pressed against her spine. Her fingers drop to her waist band, for her knife, but “don’t even fucking think about it Louise.”

Her hands rise, palm out, landing on the window of the truck, “alright. No need to shoot me. Think we established that already. How ‘bout you just tell me what the fuck you want, huh? No bullshit about catching up with an old friend either fucker, just out with it.”

“You remember that time we took old man Niemi’s rowboat out on the lake? We were gonna paint the rock on the point? Got caught in a sudden downpour, lake got angry, whipped the boat right over. That was when? Maybe a year after your mom went crazy? Shot her pretty little head off,” the sound of him spitting a tobacco stream, a snicker. His hand makes contact, fingers trailing down her arm, “we floated on the upturned boat for hours, kicking our way into shore, letting the current take us for a tour. We knew the dangers, didn’t we? We knew them too well. Poor Anna,” he makes a tsk tsk noise and she closes her eyes, “how painful do you suppose drowning is? Think it was peaceful for her? Her last moments being crushed by hundreds of gallons of water. How ‘bout your mom? A barrel in her mouth,” he jabs the gun against her spine hard, “what about you? Lost in the mountains. Left alone to die. Real war hero after that big rescue mission, huh? Real hero,” he snorts it, “real hero. But what about us Louise?! What about us?!”

“What about you Eddie?” her voice is steady but her insides are starting to quake. 

“What about me? What about me, what made me less important than those civilians? Those towel-heads. Camel-fuckers. Hajis. Dune coons. Sand niggers. What made them more important than me?! I needed you and you weren’t fucking there. I needed you! I did! Not them. I needed you to drop that fucking bomb and you backed out.”

“Didn’t back out of anything Eddie. Command was…”

“Fuck command! You couldn’t drop that fucking bomb. And they died because of you. It was your fucking choice and you know it!” he’s screaming now, “you chose the worth of the sand niggers over your own countrymen.”

Spots rising and colliding in her closed lids, the longer he talks the more her stomach clenches. She had no choice. She had no choice. It has been the echo in her head since that day. She had no choice. She was an officer in the United Staes Navy and she followed command. She followed her orders, “I did make that fucking choice Eddie, I made it and I made the right choice. I’d do it a million fucking times the same fucking way every time,” she screams it, though she meant it to be steady, unintimidated, “now if you’re going to aim a gun at me twice in a twenty four hour period you better pull the fucking trigger! Make it fucking count!”

His breath shakes, “you got,” so close to the back of her neck she can feel his body heat, “exactly what you deserved,” kicking her leg out from under her as a shot rings through the air. She’s falling, blood coursing through her veins, adrenaline rushing in her ears. Hitting the dirt with a thud. But she knows, she knows better than to look. Just to see it. Only to see an empty shell of a person she once loved.

“Ladybug,” he’s on the dirt in front of her, on his knees, the hunting rifle in one hand, the other landing on her cheek, “are you hit? Are you okay Ladybug?”

Ladybug. It rushes in her ears and makes her head spin with a million memories she thought had died.

“I’m okay Dad,” her own voice distant in her ears, “I’m okay.”

—————

He’s fallen silent, the noise of the wind blowing through the open windows the only sound inside the cab of the truck. The sun will rise soon. 

Finally he sighs, “what’s the plan Ladybug? Steal a plane, overtake a bunker full of lunatics? Live five years underground and then what?”

“I don’t know Dad. I really don’t know,” her voice is shaky, “I guess I just, fuck, I don’t know.”

“You got a plane?”

“No, but I know where one is.”

“Nearby?”

“Yeah. If it’s still there.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then we’ll head to the old airbase.”

“You are your mother’s child Ladybug, that you are,” he’s smiling at her and it ain’t like she’s going to thank God for small favors or somethin’ stupid like that. But thank fuck he’s lucid right now. It won’t last, but it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really Eddie? Get lost already... one gone anyway. Charlie anywhere in the shadows? I doubt it. 
> 
> So Lou's on the road. Our band of trash is making their way out of the woods. One road in, one road out. Think their paths will cross again? 
> 
> Ladybug - redeeming the nickname. 
> 
> So AK's Billy is played by Denis Leary. My version of him is pretty different, but there's your visual anyway. 
> 
> If we do meet the rest of the Codys I will treat them like OCs so you guys don't have to know anything about them coming into this. If there is a this...


	22. An Awfully Big Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One road in... one road out.
> 
> Maybe a warning here of corpses. Can I stop warning yet? If you're triggered by things that are involved in an apocalypse style fic then hit the back arrow and try some of my other works. Thanks :)
> 
> If you're not triggered, then carry on my friend. Let's go for a ride.

An Awfully Big Adventure

 

“Come to your fuckin’ senses or what?” Lou’s wondering, stalking across the road. 

Mandy only pulled over because the horn and the flashing lights were so fucking obnoxious, the only vehicle they’d seen yet, dawn approaching, sky and land grey. She’s so tired. So fucking exhausted. Mickey is still out, mumbling incoherent things every now and then before he falls silent again. His head cradled in Ian’s lap. She keeps watching his hand out of the corner of her eye, stroking through Mickey’s hair, his soft voice reminding him that he’s okay every time he stirs. 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, her hands tight on the wheel, a wave of relief washing over her as soon as her eyes landed on Lou’s form exiting the pick-up truck. She’s got blood splattered on her legs, her clothes, and a smear of it across the left side of her neck like she tried and failed to wipe it off, “I don’t,” her voice trails off and Lou steps up to the window, peering around Mandy with concern in her brow, “he’s got an infection or something. I just, we just thought we could find some medical,” a tear springs itself loose from her eye.

Lou’s gaze lands on her face, lingers there, studying her, “first off, don’t ever fuckin’ pull over for no one. Second off, you ain’t gonna find a soul gives a shit enough to push any antibiotics they got. What were you gonna do? Just knock on doors ’til someone shot your face off? Drive into town and rummage around the clinics that are well past ransacked?”

“I don’t know,” another tear falls, “we don’t know, we don’t know what we’re doing!” panic is rising, making her sound winded like she just ran a fucking marathon instead of carrying her dying brother through the woods on a hammock they made from some stupid satiny sheet and a few branches. 

Lou’s hand is warm when it contacts Mandy’s cheek, snagging a tear with her index finger and smudging it against her thumb, “this shit is useless, alright? Don’t go wastin’ your fluids on shit you can’t control. Wait here. I’ll grab my stuff.”

—————

Lou’s dad is fucking weird. Mandy can’t tell if he’s high or senile, but he keeps looking out the window like every thing he’s seeing is something he’s seeing for the very first time. And he keeps calling Lou Valentine, but she's answering to it, so maybe it's some kind of nickname.

Trying like hell to stay awake behind the wheel. They made one stop already, Lou came back shaking her head and telling them to keep moving. She said once they get into town not to stop for any fucking reason whatsoever. Not even if they see a lost kid on the side of the road. If anyone had to piss they’d have to do it in a jug. 

The road has become something more resembling of a highway. Three lanes every once in awhile, signs noting distance to eateries and gas stations. Lou topped off the tank, siphoning every last drop out of her truck before she climbed in, felt Mickey’s forehead and declared him good enough. She hasn’t really told them much of a plan, just that she’ll take care of him when they get where they’re going. 

“Holy fuck, what is that?” cresting a hill on the highway, a huge looming dirt mountain on the horizon. It’s taller than anything else around them, higher than any peaks they’ve seen so far. It’s all brown. Not a single tree or structure in sight. Stepped, like some strange rock staircase to the sky.

When they reach the base of the hill it’s gone again, hidden between them and the houses and the trees, “that’s the mine. Iron. Had to take the pile down a few hundred feet, some law says the highest point in the state can’t be manmade.”

“That’s from a mine?”

“Yeah. Open pit. Minin’ is what kept people in this peninsula after it was discovered. All kinds of old underground mines caused cave-ins back in the day.”

Houses, trailer parks, business, starting to appear, “holy shit, five lanes,” two in each direction and a center turn lane.

“Fuckin’ big city now,” Lou laughs, “gonna be nothin’ but beat down old ass houses for a ways now. Fall down the hill into the lake and get eaten up by tourist shit. But we ain’t takin’ a tour of downtown. We’re headed to the old airbase.”

“Old airbase?” the first two words Ian has spoken to anyone other than Mickey all day.

“Ya, used to be an air force base. Got shut down in the ’90’s. Barracks and officers’ housing and shit got turned into low-income shitholes. Meth moved in and the place looks like a fuckin’ slum now. Back in the day though, fuck, it was somethin’. All neat and tidy, they used to do air shows every year. Even the blue angels showed some years. The strip is now an international airport. Real fuckin’ international. Only place they fly is Detroit and Chicago. But they got air force sized strips and the ability to land anything so they’re considered international.”

Mandy’s eyes are drawn to the smoke billowing out of a neighborhood off to her right. Fuck, she can only imagine what kind of mess Chicago is right now. If places like this are burning themselves down. The further into humanity they get, the worse it gets. Signs of violence, looted structures. A few people here and there, mostly running away as soon as they see the vehicle. Taking cover but Mandy would be blind to not see the rifles aimed at them through broken windows. Curtains flapping in the breeze. The smell of soot, fire. Ash falling in the air around them. Stop lights that don’t blink, broken cars. Her breath catches in her throat when she sees the remains of a semi having smashed into a sedan. Blood splattered like a reddish brown paint bomb went off inside the sedan. 

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Lou advises, “we’re armored. Anyone starts shootin’, we’re well armed. You just focus on drivin’.”

“How do you deal with this kind of thing?” she hears herself wonder, knowing Ian is thinking the same thing, “seeing so much death and shit?”

Billy is the one who smiles, turning his head to look at his daughter in the seat behind them, “get high, get drunk, get laid.”

Lou snorts out a laugh, “yeah, somethin’ like that.”

Her eyes are pulled to a small lake on the left side, even though Lou told her not to, she has to look. And she fucking wishes she didn’t. Corpses, all bloated and puffy lining the shore. A black bird sitting on one of them, picking off flesh. She gags when she sees the form of a child. 

“Every boot loses their cookies at some point,” Billy half-whispers, “just do it when no one can see it.”

“Alright, take the next right, we’ll take the backroads. Hopefully most of the mess is behind us.”

—————

“Looks like we got ourselves a ride,” she’s smirking, slinking out of a small, well, sort of small, small in comparison to the other buildings at airports. It’s more like a storage shed of some sort. But they’re on the runway. 

“Okay, you have to tell us where we’re going now. We aren’t just going to get on a plane with you without knowing what’s happening, when or if you’re going to help Mickey. He’s,” her voice chokes off, looking at the truck and waiting for the thickness to pass from her voice, “we don’t know how bad it is. We don’t know if he’ll make it. We have only so much time, right? But going for some joy ride right now, it’s not going to help. And if you don’t have…”

“You think I’m gonna get ya all loaded up, take you skyward and what? Look, I know you don’t know me. And I know trust is something that takes fucking years to build, but really, what do you have to lose? Huh? His brain ain’t cookin’ itself yet. He’s got some time. Shove another Tylenol down his throat and keep drippin’ water on his tongue. We’ll get this taken care of when we have a clean place to do so,” her hand lands on Mandy’s shoulder, “this ain’t ideal. But nothin’ about a population cleanse can be, can it? Thing is, if I’m right, and it ain’t an asteroid, and it’s all just a way to shake some humans off this planet, then it’s already goin’ as planned, ain’t it? You saw the bodies. Can you imagine what the cites look like? And it’s worldwide. So if I’m right and we got nukes headed our way, then we gotta get underground and we gotta get there fast.”

“Are you saying you know where there’s a bunker? Are you taking us to…”

“To live the next three to five years underground with a shit pile of gold to start a new fuckin’ world when the dust settles.”

“But why would you do that? And why would, why would we want to start a new world, or how can we even, how can anyone stay sane trapped in a fucking bunker for five years? How do they even work? How do you breathe down there? And what if you’re wrong, what if it is an asteroid, and what if the orbit is getting smaller? Then we slowly melt underground? Or the asteroid blows the Earth to smithereens and we’re fucked anyway?”

Her hand clamps down tight and she sighs, “valid questions. I guess you’ll have to figure all that out for yourself. But do it quickly. I’m going to load up my shit, grab my crazy dad and get this bird off the ground in three minutes. You’re coming, then climb on. You’re stayin’ then stay. I’m gonna go over and tell your Raggedy Andy he’s got three minutes. I’ll help haul your brother onboard when you make up your mind.”

With that, she turns on her heel and walks away. 

—————

“Alright, empty your fuckin’ bladders, get on board and buckle in. If you’re comin’, that is.”

Though she’s already got Mickey belted in and propped up, sort of. His eyes opened, they narrowed at her when she was leaning his head against the wall. A tiny hint of recognition flashed in the confusion in the foggy sky of his irises and she shoved a pill down his throat. 

“What’d you give him?” Ian sounded defensive, and fuck, he looks about as awful as Mandy feels. Maybe making decisions this fucking tired is a terrible idea, maybe getting on board this plane with a near stranger at the end of the world is a fucking great idea. Maybe they’ll get shot down before they even get over the Midwest. Or maybe the plan for worldwide panic will go into effect early and they’ll be in the blast range of whoever’s nuke lands first. Maybe there are already fighter jets from other countries flying over the US like flies over shit. And maybe being overtired and half-panicked is enough to numb any sane part left of her. 

She takes a deep breath, feels the ground solid beneath her feet, closes her eyes to the sight of a gentle blue summer sky. 

I’m yours and you’re mine. She can practically feel his hand in hers, the swing beneath her butt and the feel of his punch lingering on her body. But she understood it. Immediately she understood it. Why he had to hit her, why he had to do it to understand for himself that he was not Terry. He was not the walking, talking, reincarnation of their father. He got no pleasure from the hit, she could see it on his face. And she could see how quickly he understood. He was not Terry. And he would never be Terry. 

I’m yours and you’re mine.

One more deep breath of fresh air, just in case it’s the last, and step forward. Two steps, three. She’s climbing aboard and she’s leaning over her brother, planting a kiss on his burning hot forehead, “to live would be an awfully big adventure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandy's Northern Lights were Tinker Bell. Mickey's were the end of the world. To die would be an awfully big adventure... to live would be an awfully big adventure. Alright Peter Pan, let's fly. 
> 
> I'm working on imagery. One of the things I've lost focus on through the course of fanfic is imagery. How am I doing?
> 
> Quick reminder - the setting for this work is non-fictional but my version is fictional so when it's all combined it's fictional. Mostly ;)
> 
> Are we desert-bound?


	23. Enjoy The Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We have lift-off.

Enjoy The Ride

 

Fuck, Ian feels like he’s suffocating. Every round of turbulence, every turn the plane makes, every word Lou speaks. All of it, it is all bearing down on him with the weight of his life. His entire fucking life spent relying on his siblings and trying to make his way out of the Southside. All those days he spent at the Armory staring at the helicopter. It was decommissioned, just sitting there as some bleak reminder of old wars fought. Bullet holes littering it’s sides, but fuck, he would have given anything to feel flight. 

The seaplane, that was, fuck, that was incredible. The sun glinting off the surface of the lake, the greenest trees he’s ever seen in his life. The calm of it. The feel of the controls under his hands. The feel of control.

His head leans back against the seat, a deep breath, Mickey has bobbed over to land on his shoulder. His body heat like a furnace on full blast, but somehow not as bad as earlier. Turning his head, face against his damp hair. A deep breath, a center. Find a center and hold it. 

His eyes scan out the small window. Land below. Farm fields of the midwest. They look like a patchwork quilt of nothing more than greens and yellows and browns. Smoke of fire rising like a curtain before the plane parts it. 

“Shit,” he hears himself breathe. The world really has fallen into chaos. Burning cattle fields and crops. Even the middle of the farm belt is being torn apart by humans. 

He leans into Mickey again, closing his eyes and finding his center. His mind keeps wandering to Chicago. To his family. But what could he do now? Ask her to turn around, let him off in the city, if he makes it through the chaos and finds his house unburned, then what? Dig his way into their sandcastle and die with them instead of Mickey?

A tear trickles from his eye, landing in Mickey’s hair. He feels Mandy’s hand slide into his and he squeezes it hard. Bringing it towards his chest, over his heart, and keeping it there.

—————

He’s startled awake by the sound of emergency alarms going off inside the small plane. Flashing red lights all over the instrument panel. His eyes dart to the window, hearing the switches being flipped off and the buzzers quit. They enter a plume of smoke only to be jostled by turbulence that’s violent, making his stomach flip and his hand that’s latched onto Mandy’s clamp down that much tighter.  
Facing forwards he sees Lou and her father looking at each other. She seems to be scanning him for answers. And he seems pretty fucking certain of whatever his silence is conveying.

“Shit,” is her one word response. Her seatbelt is tossed aside, she’s crouched in the tight cabin space, slamming open the compartment.

“What’s happening?” Ian clears his throat.

She doesn’t hear him. Or she’s ignoring him, haphazardly pushing through the supplies onboard. Moving through every compartment while the control of the plane is in the hands of her father. 

“What’s happening?” he asks again, this time with a squeeze back from Mandy’s cold hand.

She finds what she’s looking for but it offers no relief, instead her fist rises to her lower lip, pressing there like she’s punching the words back into her mouth, and her face turns away from them, “only two chutes Billy.”

Ian’s stomach clenches, heart leaping to his throat. Only two chutes. There are five people on board. Only two chutes. If she’s looking for parachutes then this can’t be good. This can’t be good. Those buzzers and alarms and emergency lights. Fuck. Another round of turbulence sends her to her butt between the seats and Mickey’s head clattering against the wall. 

He lets go quickly of Mandy’s hand, reaching for Mickey through the bumps and nauseating tilt. Taking his face in a firm grip, fuck, another jolt sends his hand crashing into the wall. But at least it wasn’t Mickey’s head this time. 

“You need to tell us what’s happening!” he hears his own voice bouncing off the walls of the plane. 

It’s Billy who answers, “there’s no way to put this bird down gently. Time to pull the escape hatch.”

“What?! What does that mean?” the jostling is making acid rise, swallowing it back down every time. 

“It means stand the hell up, you’re gettin’ the first chute.”

“What? But what about? You said there’s two, how does, how are you making this choice?”

“I ain’t. He is,” her head cocks towards her dad, “these ain’t tandem chutes, but we’ll improvise. You ever jump before?”

“No, no, what the fuck? I’m not…”

“Yeah you are. And you’re taking her with you.”

“But, I, what about Mickey?”

“I’ve jumped before, I’ll take the dead weight. Two newbies strapped together are better than one. Jump out when I tell you, pull the chord immediately. Enjoy the ride, when you’re feelin’ close to the ground make an L shape with your body, slide in on your butt. It’s easier than trying to run it out,” her hands are flat on the walls of the plane, keeping her on her feet, “it’s that or stay exactly where you are and take your chances with a crash landing the ain't gonna end well.”

“Okay,” Mandy gets to her feet, “strap me up. I’m taking him down with me.”

A protest is on the tip of his tongue, but looking at the determination in Mandy’s eyes when they land on his, and thinking about the actual act of jumping out of a plane. Yeah, Mandy is the one that’s more likely to just jump. Fuck. She's a Milkovich, of course she'd be okay with jumping out of a plane without any experience whatsoever with a fucking parachute.

Lou doesn’t waste any time in getting Mandy ready. Ian’s nose is in Mickey’s hair and his eyes are lingering out the window where the inferno has died down. Tiny bits of fire here and there, but it’s becoming desert quickly. Scrub brushes the only things that could burn here, and he supposes the sand won’t catch on fire between them, it won’t spread. Fuck. 

Fuck. He presses his lips against Mickey’s head, “I’ll see you down there. I love you,” whispering through the rushing in his ears and the breath catching in his throat, “fuck, I better see you down there, I won’t live without you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay. So here's the thing. This was somewhere around the point where Google told me, 'look, you want to call yourself a writer then use your fucking imagination you dipshit. Quit asking me questions about planes and bunkers and world-ending events. It's called fiction for a fucking reason and it's called imagination because it far surpasses our reality. So fuckin' pitter-patter, let's get at her', and I was like, 'fine, dick, but if I catch heat for having an imagination...', and Google was like, 'if you catch heat for having an imagination then you belong in fiction my dear'. 
> 
> Sure, writing conveniences of telling the tense parts of the storylines from the perspectives of the characters least knowledgeable about the situation. Whatever, if I don't ever try my hand at things that make me uncomfortable, I'll never know if I'm capable or not. As long as The Rock doesn't come creeping out of the shadows, then let's just claim we made it believable... 
> 
> And really, is there an action flick ever made that's fully believable? There's always the character that's too big for humanity, there's always the event that's epically awesome but only for the big screen, and there's always the scene where we assholes watching are thinking, 'yeah, like that could ever happen? Scientifically, physically, technically... no'. It's called imagination for a reason. Shall we exercise those things that most of us lose when we hit puberty? I feel like it's safe to assume if you guys are still here, then you still have an imagination too.


	24. A One And Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jumping out of a plane, landing in the middle of the desert right before the incoming apocalypse? Yep. But they're still teenagers. And they're still our dramady crew.

A One And Only

 

“Holy fuck, that was incredible!” Mandy’s voice is high, nearly as high as her adrenaline. The hard packed desert sand beneath her feet, Ian still attached to her body. The landing could have been better. A lot better, really, but no one’s bleeding and they’re both still breathing, “that was fucking insane Ian!” she slaps her hands down on his shoulder and he finally turns his head.

His smile is concerned at the edges, but she expected that, “yeah, didn’t think I’d ever get to skydive into the desert,” he sighs, digging around in his pocket for his multi-tool. 

“Holy fuck, it’s hot here,” the dry heat immediately penetrating her clothes, sun blindingly bright even through the layers of smoke and smog that are lingering in the air above them. 

“Yeah it is,” he’s cutting the chute loose, unstrapping them both. 

She tilts her head back, looking skyward to find the second parachute. A deep breath, ribs feeling too tight for her lungs at the image of the plane in the distance, black smoke billowing behind it before it disappears behind a rocky mountain. She supposes Lou’s dad just made the ultimate sacrifice for them. But maybe it’s the best he could have hoped for. If the war he fought fucked him up, maybe his final mission was the one that counted. 

“Thank fuck, there they are,” her hand rises, pointing the direction of the form drifting out of the sky. 

By the time they get to where they’ve landed, the ties are already untangled and the chute is folded neatly underneath Mickey’s still breathing body. Lou doesn’t look at them, and she doesn’t offer any more than, “I’ll take him the first leg,” cinching down his arms at his sides. The packs under him for support, the parachute strapped around him. She’s knotted the cords to make it shorter, shrugging the harness back on her shoulders and taking a few backwards steps as she watches. The unit moves, not jostling his body too much as she takes a few more to test out her mode of transportation.

They fall in line behind her, sensing her need for silence, knowing her father is going down in a tangle of metal. 

—————

At least an hour of silence has passed, trekking through the rocks, dirt, sand, and desert scrubs. Not a living thing in sight. Everything here is just a bunch of shades of brown with some green speckled in and hundreds of miles of unimpeded view of sky. Or however many miles the naked eye can see anyway. Mandy supposes she should be keeping her eyes out for rattlesnakes, but she’s heard that listening for them is more productive than watching for them. 

“Alright,” Lou comes to a very ungraceful halt, plopping down on her butt, “short rest,” the parachute harness slides off her shoulders, “probably got about five more miles to go. Hopefully make it there before pitch darkness. But loss of light may help us. The pack under his back has a canteen and some jerky in the side pocket,” her hand is shaking just slightly when it rises to wipe the sweat from her brow. 

Mandy goes for the pocket as Ian takes a knee beside Mickey, tipping Lou’s ball cap off his face to feel his forehead, “the same,” he admits.

“You said you’d take care of him when we got where we were going. How do you even know if we can get in to this bunker? Do you know the owners?”

“Not exactly,” she takes a drink from the canteen when Mandy hands it over, passing it along to Ian, “I know of them. Friends of Billy’s. I, uh, they probably ain’t gonna let us in easy. Thing is, one of ‘em is my brother. Which might not count for shit, I’ve never met him. Guessing they’re a real untrusting bunch with their line of work, Billy ain’t seen his son since kid was like a toddler or somethin’. But,” she shrugs, “I guess we throw ourselves at their mercy. See what happens.”

Ian doesn’t seem to be paying attention, focused only on Mickey. 

“That’s your plan?”

“Sure. Can’t really blast our way in. They’re armed much more so than we are. Only thing we can really do is offer them somethin’ they don’t already have.”

“Like what?”

She shrugs, “skills. Somethin’ they can use either in the bunker or after. If there is an after.”

“This is the worst fucking plan I’ve ever heard. You seriously flew us out here, shoved us out of a plane, and that’s all you’ve got to go on?”

“What the fuck else were you gonna to do? Let your brother burn up from the inside out while you watched the Northern Lights and waited for the air to poison you? Sure, your whole romantic version of watching chaos from a cliff in the middle of nowhere is cute and all, but choking to death on the air you breathe, that don’t sound so hot, does it?”

“She’s right,” Ian’s quiet, his green eyes have lost their spark, “let’s keep moving. Count on the mercy of strangers. It’s all we’ve got left.”

—————

“Can you believe this shit?” Ian whispers, crouched down beside Mickey who still hasn't stirred. He’s breathing, and they’ve been dripping water in his mouth as often as they can. Kept him shaded. 

Lou told them to wait here. She was going in to scope out the place. She left her packs behind, so Mandy can only assume if she doesn’t get herself killed, then she’ll be back for them. Or she’ll be back to finish the three of them off and bring her supplies and theirs back to the bunker, “it’s pretty fucking surreal,” she sighs, sliding a finger across Mickey’s thumb.

“We leave Chicago, we end up living in a mansion, take an awesome camping trip. Then we get swept away by a near stranger, end up in a burning plane, skydiving into the desert. And now we’re waiting outside a bunker. This is…”

“I’m waiting for The Rock to come walking out of the flames somewhere,” she elbows his side.

She gets the half-laugh she was hoping for. His eyes land on hers in the darkness. They didn’t make it by dusk. And the heat hasn’t receded, not much. She can’t help but think, now that they’re here, that the darkness will be a bigger help than Lou thought. Trespassing on some crazy doomsday prepper’s property, it just doesn’t seem like it’ll end well. These people could easily just shoot her, without caring. 

“You trust her?” she wonders suddenly.

“I don’t know,” his right hand isn’t straying far from the gun tucked into his belt, his left hand isn’t straying far from Mickey’s body, “I don’t think we have a choice anymore, do we? I don’t think she’s some kind of cold-blooded killer, I’m not sure what she’s after in the long run, but she’s kept us alive this long. Doubt she’s taking us here to lock us in a torture chamber or something.”

“True. If she was going to torture us she could have done that back in Michigan.”

They both fall silent for awhile, Ian scanning their surroundings. Mandy scanning her brother, his skin tone is good. Whatever Lou keeps popping down his throat seems to be keeping his temperature at a reasonable level. He’s kissed with a dewy sheen of sweat, that must be good if he’s still hydrated enough to sweat. 

Her focus shifts when she hears some noises in the distance. Listening, taking note of Ian doing the same. The sound fades, she shrugs, “wildlife?”

“Probably. Or maybe The Rock.”

“He could get us out of this, and really, he’s not hard on the eyes,” she smirks, letting her eyebrows do a little dance for Ian’s benefit, “would you fuck him?”

“No,” he laughs, “too big and meaty for my taste.”

“So Vin Diesel probably does nothing for you either then.”

“You got a thing for bald dudes with thick chests?”

“Maybe I do. Who would you choose? If you could take any action star along on this journey?”

“That’s easy, Van Damme.”

“Um, ew.”

“What? He legitimately knows his shit when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. Not like I want to fuck him or anything, I mean maybe back in the day but he’s way too fucking old now.”

“You’d take an old Van Damme over a Tom Cruise?”

“Tom Cruise,” he snorts, “sure, guy does most of his own stunts, but I don’t think we need to jump out of another plane. Tom Cruise got nothing on us.”

“I think he’s nuts enough he could come in handy. Crazy people can be good in post-apocalyptic worlds.”

“Mel Gibson?”

“I know you can fight, but it’s our wits that make us men.”

“Braveheart, Mandy, really?”

“What? It was Iggy’s favorite.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. You know, if we survive this, and we make our way back to Chicago, he’ll probably be leading some cult by the time we get there.”

She sighs, “yeah, if anyone is going to survive this shit and thrive afterwards, it’d be him, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe us too,” he shrugs, his hand linking with Mickey’s.

“At this point, we kinda have to, right? We jumped out of a fucking burning plane and now we’re going to take over a bunker. We’ve got this. But you never answered my question.”

His brows dip, lips purse, “yeah I did. Van Damme.”

“Yeah as a survivor buddy. What about a sexy thick-chested man to spend the next three years with underground banging the shit out of. Uh, literally.”

His middle finger would be responding if he had a free hand, instead his eyes drop to Mickey and he shrugs, “don’t need one.”

“You’re ridiculous,” reaching over to shove him.

“What? It’s true.”

“Oh my god, Ian. Just play along. What’s your type?”

He looks for a moment like he’s deep in thought, then a smile spreads, “trash-talking, bitch-slapping, piece of trash. Likes to run his mouth. Kinda short, but I’d never tell him that. Pretty eyed,” he shrugs, “pretty faced, struts like a rooster, dirty mouthed, quick witted, more intelligent than he lets on, you know the type.”

“That’s not a type you dipshit. That’s a…”

“A one and only.”

Jesus fucking Christ she can see the fucking moons in his eyes from here, “you are whipped my friend.”

“Mmm hm.”

She’s shaking her head to herself when Lou reappears and crouches down beside them. Wiping the smirks off their faces to await the report. 

“Havin’ a fun little picnic over here?”

The both shrug, pretending they were actually keeping watch like they were supposed to.

She sighs, “good. Alright, well, we got a bunch of dead bodies scattered around the yard. House is empty. Whoever won the battle must have gone underground. Don’t know anyone, ‘cept the woman from the photos. And she is one of the bodies. So that kind of, throws off my plans.”

“What plans?” Ian laughs.

“Better plans than yours, you little shits,” there’s a lightheartedness to it, her eyes lingering on Ian’s smile. 

Mandy supposes there’s not much left to do but laugh. Laugh or cry and apparently crying wastes fluids, so laugh it is.

When it fades and they’re all sitting on their butts in the sand outside a complex that supposedly has a bunker somewhere on the premises, Lou sighs, “guess we can hope one of the older siblings remembers Billy. His son won’t remember him, Lord only knows what Janine has told him. Can’t say I’d have much good to say about him,” her hand rises, wiping across her face, “I don’t know. He meant well. He just,” it trails off and she realizes she has no reason to explain her father to them, “anyway. What now? Knock on the door. and see…”

It’s interrupted by the bolt and lever of a rifle.

“Fuck,” her hands come up at her sides. Ian and Mandy follow suit when a pistol is cocked, “doesn’t anyone just say a good old fashioned ‘hello’ anymore?” Lou wonders to no one in particular, “maybe a fuckin’ ‘hey, you lost? You don’t look like you’re from ‘round here, can I help you find the highway? Come in for a cup of tea and a fuckin’ chat?’”

“Shut the fuck up,” the voice is a low growl, the barrel is jabbed into her side.

“Alright. I hear ya,” her face turns, trying to make out the form in the darkness.

“Don’t look at me,” he warns, “keep your eyes down. Hand over your wallet.”

“Sure. But you ain’t gonna find anything in there.”

“And don’t go for your weapons either. Just the wallet.”

“Well I’m a chick so… wallet’s in the pack. Go for it yourself.”

Fuck. Maybe sleep would have been a good idea at some point. Being loopy and overtired and shaking off adrenaline from a near plane crash, then coming into a situation like this. It’s too much. It’s like all of their brains are shutting down slowly.

The guy with the rifle motions his head for someone else to do it. Shit, how many are there? Mandy can only see the one with the rifle. But just his outline. He’s not very tall, well muscled. The one that bends over to reach for the pack is young. Maybe Mandy’s age. 

“The pack under the kid’s head. Front pocket,” Lou directs.

As soon as Ian’s hand moves, just slightly, not even enough to know what his motives are, another one steps closer. Glock against the back of his head. Oh shit, this one is big, “don’t move.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“What’s wrong with him?” the one digging for the wallet wonders.

“Infected wound,” Lou supplies, “just looking for a sterile place to clean him up.”

“Is one of you medically tr…”

“J,” the one with the rifle hisses, “shut up and get the wallet.”

“Okay,” he concedes, carefully moving Mickey’s head aside to get to the zipper, “he’s pretty warm.”

“J,” another hiss.

His hand comes out of the pack with a stack of papers, “that’s not a wallet.”

“Sure isn’t,” she smirks and the barrel is jabbed against her again, “go ahead, open it up anyway.”

“Um, I…”

“Just do it,” the big one tells him, “where’s your wallet?”

“Don’t got one. All I got is that, and you might find it interesting. Or you might not.”

“What is it J?”

“Um, documents. Navy shit, and um, a birth certificate. It’s… um, here,” he hands it across to the guy with the rifle.

Scoffing, “how’d you get Deran’s birth certificate?”

“You know Deran?” the big one. He’s got long brown hair and when he leans to reach over for the papers, Mandy starts to think she doesn’t need an action star to keep her busy for the next three to five years either.

“Yeah, sure, guess Deran and I got a few things in common.”

—————

Mandy cringes when she watches the big guy set Mickey down, rather unceremoniously, on a steel table. He picked him up, tossed him over his shoulder like he was nothing more than a rag-doll. 

“Watch his head,” Ian orders. 

The guy shrugs his response, and takes his post near the doorway that Mandy assumes leads further into the bunker. Fuck, he’s big. And pretty. And manly. 

They zip-tied their hands behind their backs, took their guns and led them in. Now they’re waiting. The one they called J, lifts Mickey’s head and puts a folded up hoodie under it.

“Thank you,” Ian whispers, leaning his head back against the brick wall at their backs. 

Mandy can hear voices going back and forth, that growly voice from earlier, “Billy was a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, but he was my piece of shit,” Lou’s voice is shaky, she clears her throat, and steadies, “s’pose he was Deran’s piece of shit too.”

“Guy locked me in a closet for three days once to go get high.”

“Surprised it wasn’t longer.”

“Okay,” a third voice cuts in, “let me get this straight. You and I have the same dad? Why should that matter to me?”

“Fuck it. Guess it shouldn’t. Here’s what matters, I got skills could help you out in the future. All I’m askin’, is to share this bunker that don’t belong to you anyway. Looks pretty fuckin’ well stocked. Looks like it could support a whole cult of preppers. But you only got, what? Six. I see six. One of ‘em’s a kid.”

“What are these skills?” growly one.

“Former Naval Officer. Raised in the middle of nowhere, know how to live off the land.”

“So what? You got military skills, what’d you do in the Navy? Sit around on a boat with your thumb up your ass, maybe suckin’ off…”

“Fuck you. I’m a pilot. I got basic combat med training. And a fuck ton more knowledge than you do about mechanics of let’s see… airplanes, trucks, cars, generators, everything under the sun that runs off gas. Some electric and some diesel. Any of you ever plant a garden? Build a house? You ever even cut down a fuckin’ tree? Fuck, give me a tour of this fuckin’ place, I’ll show you what all the shit in here is that you don’t know what it’s for. Live in a city all your life? Doubt you’ve ever skinned a deer.”

“What the hell good is that going to do us if nothing survives this?”

“Guess if nothing survives this, then we don’t either. But I’m sayin’, you go out there when this all settles and there is a chance of living off the land, would you know how?”

There’s a short silence before a woman’s voice cuts in, “she makes a valid point. What about your friends?”

“You want my skill set, you get them too. Ain’t no negotiations about that.”

“You have combat experience?”

“Sure. Look, we stay down here and survive whatever the fuck happens up above. I got a pretty good idea of what we’re walking into when we open that door. Do you?”

“Oh shit,” Mandy’s attention is drawn to J, he’s taking a backwards step away from Mickey. Who is heaving. 

“Fuck,” Ian lurches to his feet, only to have the big guy shove him back down.

“Don’t fucking move,” he tells him, “yo Pope, we got a problem in here.”

“Roll him to his side!” Ian hollers at J.

He looks first at the big guy, debating something silently and then he does what Ian ordered. 

Pope must be the growly guy. He’s the first one back out, watching the scene with a disinterested look on his face and his hand on his gun. Lou’s behind him, shoving her way past him, and, “cut my ties. Right fucking now. Get me a med kit,” she’s talking to J. 

As soon as he takes a step, Pope puts his hand down on his chest to stop him, “we haven’t decided what we’re going to do with them yet,” his voice is calm, steady, his eyes are a little beady and he has an air about him that makes Mandy wonder if he was the kid in the neighborhood that used to kill cats. 

“Make your fucking decision real fuckin’ quick,” Lou’s brows are risen, cheeks flushing with anger, “unless you want an innocent kid to die.”

His dark eyes shift from Lou to the big guy. The big guy shrugs. A woman with dark hair, dark almond shaped eyes, and bone structure of a model peers out from the doorway. She scans the situation calmly before concern takes her features, her hand lands on Pope’s arm and he immediately calms at the touch, “let them treat the kid,” his face turns towards her and she nods confidently, “Smurf is always saying, we don’t hurt people. If we don’t help them, then we are hurting them. The supplies in this place are…”

“Okay,” he cuts her off, “cut her ties Craig. J, go get a med kit. IV bag,” he steps forwards while Craig is cutting the zip ties, jabbing his rifle into Lou’s spine, “you try anything…”

“What the fuck am I gonna try?”

He jabs her again, just to make his point. His head turns to the doorway, “Deran, get out here, help hold this kid down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't describe the trip down because I've never skydived. And we've all seen a skydiving scene or two, haven't we?
> 
> Hehehe, The Rock. Nope, just the Codys. Alright, so this is where we're laying eyes on the Cody family. Looks like I killed off Janine (Smurf) the mom in the gunfight - there's no way possible I could write her anyway. And I'm going ahead and taking out Baz too. Quick family tree - Smurf is the mom, Pope (Andrew) and Julia were twins and the oldest in line. Julia was J (Joshua)'s mom who died of an OD. Craig is the big guy (big hunk of man is what I like to call him) and second son. Deran we haven't laid eyes on yet but he's the youngest of the brothers. Baz (Barry) was adopted by Smurf - his uber abusive father was played by none other than the actor who brought us Terry Milkovich. Baz's wife Cath (Catherine) is the model looking chick who I am keeping and their daughter Lena is also along for this. We'll reveal more about each character as we go along. 
> 
> Cath is sticking around because we need some females, and I liked her. They killed her off too early in the show. But it made sense for the storyline so I'm actually not bitter. I'm keeping her because she had somewhat of a calming effect on Pope and we'll need that. And also because she played a role in the show Revolution, and I liked her character there too. 
> 
> And there was probably a shit ton more I could have noted in this chapter, but I suppose I could just tell that shit in the storylines to come.


	25. It Ain't Ended Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earth to Mickey...

It Ain’t Ended Yet

 

Ian can still smell the burning flesh. Mickey’s burning flesh. Fuck. He’s pale. Ian’s hand is shaking when he reaches out to stroke his hair. 

That feeling, feeling of being so goddamned helpless. Still zip-tied, watching strangers holding Mickey down while they drained the infection. It started bleeding, just pouring down his leg into his jeans crumpled at his thigh. He must have been so fucking confused, waking up being held down while they were cutting into his asscheek. Ian could see every muscle in his body flex when he struggled. Mandy called out first, maybe a millisecond before Ian found his voice. 

Mickey didn’t say a fucking word, without seeing his face, Ian knew he was biting his lip. Until he passed out. Probably from pain, maybe dehydration, hunger. Combination of all of that. 

“I can still smell it,” he tells Mandy.

“Yeah. I almost puked. Not gonna lie.”

She’s lying on the top bunk. On her back. Legs bent, hand on her stomach. She sighs when she rolls up to her elbow, peering over the edge, watching her brother’s sleeping face, “how’s he feel?”

Hand on his forehead, “cooler. Close to normal.”

“Good. I’m so fucking tired, but I cannot turn off my mind. Think we’ll feel it down here? Why do you think they’re really letting us stay? I wanna know more about the guy who built this ridiculous underground fortress. This thing is bigger than a house. Are you kidding me with work-out room? The equipment’s pretty old, but, I mean, who the fuck builds a fucking concrete house underground and puts in a gym? I can’t wait to see the rest of it, you know, if they don’t just come in here and execution-style us, or something.”

Ian grunts, they only saw what was necessary on the way to the bunk room, “I missed the gym.”

“Well it was to your right after the kitchen if you’d been looking at anything other than Mickey’s ass.”

“How could I not look at it. It’s like a car wreck. Can’t look away even if you want to.”

“I’m going to tell him you said that.”

“Fuck, Mandy, did you even see that? I mean, fuck, it was…”

“Good thing we Milkoviches have extra cheek.”

“Barbaric. What? You don’t have extra,” his hand is sliding through Mickey’s hair again. It’s like he can’t stop it. Even if he tried. And fuck, when he’s passed out, he’s so willing to accept affection. Ian feels himself smiling, knowing when Mickey wakes up, he’s going to be a crabby, mouthy, angry bastard. Just how Ian likes him. 

Her face has disappeared over the ledge of the bunk again, “do you feel like we’re waiting for the verdict or something? Does it feel like it’s been forever?”

“Yeah, kind of,” he’s kneeling on the floor, next to Mickey’s bottom bunk. He supposes it’s their bottom bunk, “think I’m just on overload. I don’t think any of this will process until Mickey wakes up. And after, fuck, tonight? Tomorrow? When the Earth starts shaking.”

“Or gets blasted into tiny particles and we’re dead on impact. Or would being in the bunker just prolong our death?”

“I have no idea.”

“You should lay down. You look fucking horrible. You want me to sit with him?”

“No. No, come on, I’m fine. I’m…”

“You want your face to be the first he sees,” she sounds mostly sarcastic. But it’s true. And she knows it as well as he does. 

—————

He wakes to the feel of fingers in his hair, lips on his forehead, “Gallagher.”

Fuck. The voice sends a chill down his spine. Body coming back to life, eyes shooting open quickly and landing immediately on that sparkling sunrise over the lake, “Mick,” it’s nothing more than an exhale. Tears of relief springing to his eyes. Noting that his legs are pins and needles and he must still be kneeling on the floor. 

His hand that isn’t linked in Mickey’s lands on his cheek, sliding back to his ear, thumb on his jaw, “fuck, Mick. That was fucking scary. I thought,” it breaks off and he can’t finish that sentence anyway.

He gets caught just staring at him. Wondering how the fuck he’s so fucking beautiful, even pale and puffy eyed. Stinky and sweaty, and fucking gorgeous and Ian can’t stop it. Leaning into his lips, lingering against his forehead and breathing his air, “Mick, I…”

“Where the fuck are we?”

Of course, “it’s such a long story.”

“Why the fuck you on the floor?”

“‘Cause you’re, you, um, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“Uh, watching the sky imploding. But, s’pose it ain’t ended yet if we’re still breathin’? The fuck are we? Get the fuck in bed.”

“Mick, I…”

“Just get the fuck in bed tough guy. I feel fuckin’ weird as fuck, but it ain’t contagious. Is it?” his eyes finally leave Ian’s, scanning down to his arm, “an IV? Fuck’s in it?”

“Jesus, Mick…”

“Just climb over it, or under it, or fuck it, sit on my face.”

“Yeah, okay,” unfurling his legs sends waves of pain through his body. Cramped and aching. How the fuck much time has passed? He takes a second to stretch, scan over the room. The only other bunk that’s taken is the one across the room. And it looks like Lou’s lanky frame under the sheets. 

Must not have gotten kicked out. Or maybe she killed them all. Either way, they’re here and he’s going to take this moment to lie with Mickey. Fuck, it could be their last. A last in a string of firsts that has become a string of lasts but now, right fucking now, nothing sounds better than wrapping this gorgeous man in his arms, as long as, “that okay?” situating behind him when he rolls up to his side.

“Yeah, fuck, there a reason my whole ass is numb?”

“Uh yeah. It’s called a giant fucking infection in your furthest to the right asshole, like two days of being mostly unconscious, or has it only been one? I don’t even fucking know at this point. A super barbaric draining session and then a damn cauterizing that would have made me puke if I had anything whatsoever in my stomach. And now it’s all packed with gauze and antibiotic ointment and if it’s numb then consider yourself lucky ‘cause that shit is nasty.”

“You callin’ my ass nasty Gallagher?”

“Fuck no,” lips against the back of his head, “no. That just…”

“I’m fucking with you, fuck. So we’re not dead?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What the fuck was I watchin’ in the sky? Floatin’ in the lake, all fuckin’ hot and I couldn’t find either of you. So this ain’t the afterlife or somethin’ fucked?”

“You were watching the Northern Lights. And Mandy and I were carrying you out of the woods.”

“Huh?” now his face turns, eyeing Ian over his shoulder, “I thought I was watchin’ the big event.”

“Like we’d let you watch the sky falling without us,” though now Ian feels like a jerk for not even realizing Mickey could have possibly been watching the sky thinking he was dying and he was all alone. Fuck, he should have been talking to him the whole way out. 

A half smirk rises and he’s about to open his mouth, but Ian covers it with his own before a word can exit. Fuck, he missed that voice. And those high brows. And that smirk. And this. Lips on lips. The feeling like he’s floating and sinking and drowning all at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the medical questions were another point where Google was like, 'if you want to be a doctor go back to school, if you want to write fiction, use your imagination...' And then I was rewatching AK to get a grip on these characters and the scene where they're cauterizing Craig's bullet wound and then a later episode where he's sucking the infection out himself in the garage came to mind, and I thought 'fuck it, if they can do it, then let's do it'. Granted, Craig ended up in surgery down in Mexico, but whatever. 
> 
> And the bunker, let's just pretend it's an underground house. I don't feel like watching Doomsday Preppers to get a grip on what a real life bunker looks like and Google Images were not helpful. I'm giving myself a pass on that, if this guy was preparing for the last fifty years, he probably did have a pretty sweet set-up.
> 
> Oh Mickey. I only had you silent for a few chapters and I was already getting bored with the narratives. 
> 
> I was right, this week was a good writing week. The next two are looking sketchy, but I still have this evening to maybe get one or two written and I'll just keep on posting as I write with this one. 
> 
> So we're safe in the bunker and it's a safe bet to assume the next chapter will be in Mickey's unique narration style.


	26. FUCK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't serve much purpose except to give Mickey a big old welcome back.

FUCK

 

What in the fuck? Seriously, what in the mother-fucking fuck? What in the fucking mother-fucking fuck? 

Fuck.

How the fuck did they end up down here? How the fuck did they find this place? And why? Why the fuck would they want to hide underground just to come back out in a few months or years or fuckever just to have a world gone to shit and then what? They s’posed to rebuild humanity? Fuckin’ plant food in nuclear ash piles? Drink radioactive waste water? Hope that wildlife are still alive somewhere? Build houses? Have kids? Well, he sure in the fuck ain’t fuckin’ a chick. Even if the world depends on it. Could Ian fuck Mandy? No. No fuckin’ way Ian could fuck Mandy. That’d be like Kev fucking V’s mom or some gross fucking shit. Sometimes reproducing just ain’t fuckin’ worth it. 

What the fuck state is this? Who the fuck else is here? 

His fingers rise to grind into his eyes. Even with Ian breathing on his neck he sure in the fuck ain’t sleepin’. S’pose he slept for the last two days or one day or fuckever. 

Either fuckin’ way, he’s gotta piss. Bad. Like his back teeth are floating kind of bad. Like maybe there was just too fucking much in the IV bag and his bladder is overfuckingloaded and where’s the fucking bathroom? Are there bathrooms in bunkers? Are they in the basement of some fucking church? He remembers the fallout shelter sign on the cathedral, where the fuck else was that shit? The courthouse or something? They still in Michigan? Those fuckers haul him back to some podunk town church basement instead of lettin’ him watch it like he wanted to. The fuck is the point of survivin’ this shit anyway? 

Fuck. When he gets himself to seated he nearly pisses himself. His feet are fuckin’ two sizes too big. Gross, he’s got sausage fingers too. Talk about a fluid overload. He yanks the needle out of his arm, pressing with his thumb into the pinprick, trickle of blood. And done. 

Feet on concrete. Cool, but not cold. Darkish, but not so dark he can’t see a damn thing. 

“Fuck,” biting his tongue when he gets to his feet, his entire fucking right leg is pins and needles and his asscheek sends a sharp pulse of pain through his back, clamping down on his stomach, nearly heaving and that does not help the bladder situation. Fuck. Hand on the bunk for a moment of support. Maybe he should just piss on the floor. 

Alright, where are the fuckin’ nuns? Fuckin’ better not be in the basement of some courthouse or somethin’. Not like nuns are easy, but they’d be easier than the shitheads he’d be dealin’ with if they were in a courthouse basement. At least religious people don’t condemn an idiot for havin’ a record. ‘Course they’d condemn him for bein’ a queer. 

What the fuck? The room spins when he takes a step. But he sure in the fuck ain’t about to piss his pants. Well, he is about to piss his pants, but he sure in the fuck won’t. Fuck.

Every single goddamn step is fire in his asscheek. Fuck, he remembers that time Terry held Mandy’s arm down on the pan fresh out of the oven, the one with the burned cake in it, the cake she made for his birthday. Fuck. 

His eyes are dragged around the room, Ian didn’t say shit about Mandy. But he’d have said somethin’ if she was dead, right? Or would he save it until Mickey was feelin’ better? Soften the blow or some such fuck.

Shit, there she is. His exhale comes out easy and he takes note of her sleeping flat on her back. Looks like she’s holdin’ onto that stupid rock again. ‘Least now it won’t end up under him if she’s in a completely different bed. Better not anyway. 

The second step nearly downs him, gritting his teeth and still moving. Every step seems to lessen the pain, moving it through his system but the numbness, fuck. It’s like that one time he went to the dentist and they yanked that fuckin’ rotten tooth. Fuckin’ system paid for it, back in his first stint in juvie. He felt like his face was like that Elephant Man’s Syndrome or whatever the fuck that shit is. And he kept bitin’ his tongue and shit. Droolin’, and every time he wiped the drool off it made his scalp tingle. But not the way his scalp tingles when Ian kisses him, not like that. Like a fuckin’ tribe of fire ants climbing on his scalp. Army of ants? Tribe, fuckever.

Okay, so fuck. How the fuck long they gotta be down here? Is it like three years for the nuclear winter shit? Does that mean they gotta stay down here for three years? Or does that mean they just gotta wait like a few months and let the first round of fallout clear before they can venture out and see what awaits, like the most of the radioactive shit is passed by then?

Or if they open the door and it’s the asteroid having ripped apart the atmosphere do they just burn on contact?

Fuck. He’s in a doorway. That’s a fuckin’ plus. Hand on the frame, fuck that thing is gross. Like that big fat secretary of the warden or fuckever she was. The one he had to sit with while he waited for parole board. 

He leans his head out, hand falling to his waist, just in case his Ruger is still there. But it ain’t. Gonna shoot some fuckin’ nuns anyway? 

Fully expecting some kind of shitty 1970’s style baby-shit yellow hallway leading into a meeting room for the church group that’s putting together meal boxes for the less fortunate. Where the fuck were these ladies in Chicago? 

Oh fuck. That ain’t this at all. This is like a house. Are they even underground? What the fuck? Isn’t that what Ian said? Something about being in a bunker and he’d tell him more in the morning. If there is a morning. What the fuck? Fuck, dying in a bunker sounds a fuck of a lot worse than dyin’ on a cliff in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere. Fuck.

His fingers are in his eyes again. Pulling them away quickly, fuckin’ gross sausage lookin’ things. He shudders and he’s not sure if it’s from all the piss buildin’ up to his lungs or his gross lookin’ fingers or the thought of being trapped underground for fuck knows how long.

Fuck. He was expectin’ the ladies and gents signs, but they ain’t anywhere. Guess he’ll just have to start lookin’ in doors. Fuck, that sounds dangerous. His hand lands on his waistband again, just in case his Ruger magically showed up. It sure in the fuck didn’t. 

Jesus, fuck, goddamn. He has to stop for a quick rest. Not ‘cause he’s a pussy or nothing. Just ‘cause, fuck. Every fucking step is like this wave of nauseating heat pulsing from his asscheek through his back and down his leg. 

“You shouldn’t be moving,” but it ain’t in a concerned way. Or like a threatening way. It’s like a ‘I’m only watching to see at what exact moment you’ll pass out’.

His eyes focus on a dude who ain’t much taller than him. A little thicker. And he looks like the kind of kid who used to rip the wings off flies just to watch ‘em buzz around in a panic. 

“Gotta piss,” he ain’t gonna offer much. 

The guy shrugs. And don’t say anything. Keeps staring. The fuck is wrong with him? 

“Uh, there a bathroom around here?”

Nothing. This some kind of stare down? Like fuckin’ cats, how you ain’t s’posed to have a stare down ‘less you know you can win? Dominance thing or fucknot. Aside from the whole bladder thing, Mickey could stare all fuckin’ night. He feels his brows rising. Or maybe this guy is hard of hearing or somethin’. 

Mickey’s mouth is opening, for what? Fuck knows, maybe a repeat, but some chick appears from the door across the hall. She scans over the weird mute guy and then Mickey, “you shouldn’t be up and moving,” this chick says it with concern and she’s making her way towards him and he kind of just wants to back the fuck up and disappear back into the bunk room. Go back to the original plan to piss on the floor. That would have been easier.

“Uh, bathroom.”

“I’ll show you,” she touches the guy’s arm on her way by. Then just sort of stands next to Mickey with her hand out. He ain’t sure if he’s s’posed to shake it or hold it or what. She shrugs, “arm around my shoulder easier?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t need help.”

“Suit yourself,” stepping in line beside him. 

Fuck. First step is a serious fucking jolt and his hand just kind of makes the decision to grab her shoulder. Fuck. 

“So you’re Mickey?”

“Uh yeah.”

“I’m Catherine,” she’s silent for a few steps, is she waiting for something? What the fuck? Maybe the zombies have been living underground all this fucking time. In this church basement or fuckwhere they are, “you made quite the entrance.”

“Don’t remember.”

“That’s probably good,” she sighs, stopping at a doorway and opening her hand to it, “bathroom. Got it from here?”

“I, uh, yeah.”

“You don’t look like you got it from here,” fucking fuck. Where did this bitch come from? Gotta admit, it's a little bit of relief knowin' she's around.

“Thought you were just dyin’. The fuck you doin’ here?”

“Long story,” she nods at Catherine, taking a hold of Mickey’s arm and kicking the door open with her booted foot.

“Jesus fucking Christ, where the fuck are we? This is like a fuckin’ hillbilly throne room.”

She snorts a laugh, “nah if it was hillbilly there’d be a couple racks around.”

“Racks? Chick out there had a pretty nice one.”

A sharp elbow meets his ribs, “antlers.”

“Oh,” she’s got him steered to the urinal, and now, “you gonna hold my dick for me too?”

“No. I’m going to stand here with my back to you and if you gotta lean against me then do it. ‘Cause you fallin’ on your face on the porcelain ain’t somethin’ I feel like dealin’ with. Since you already woke me up with all your grunting and cursing on the way out the bunk room, I figure I might as well avoid another medical emergency.”

“We in some kind of fuckin’ fallout shelter in the middle of bumfuck Michigan?”

“No,” she’s turned around, off to his right side, “we are in California in bumfuck nowhere. Middle of the goddamn desert.”

“Oh fuck,” that feels good to piss, fuckin’ fuck that feels good. Fuck, “well that makes all the fuckin’ sense in the world.”

“Yah.”

“I was not grunting and cursing.”

“Somebody sure in the fuck was.”

“You always sleep fully clothed, boots on and everything?”

“When I don’t know where the hell I am or how the hell I’m gonna get woken up? Yeah. Sure do. Fuck, we overload ya with fluids, or what?”

“Fuck yeah. Fuckin’ hands and feet are all fuckin’ marshmallow man.”

“Perfect,” she sighs, and he don’t like her tone at all.

“Fuck’s that mean?”

“Nothin’. Just means we hydrated ya too quick. Good sign if you’re pissin’ though. It’ll pass.”

“So, uh, the fuck you do to me?”

“Saved your life.”

“Only to have us all die together in a bunker in the California desert. We on top of a fault line too? That’d be fuckin’ great.”

“Beats me. Guess we’ll find out.”

—————

“So you’re sayin’ I jumped out of a plane?”

Lou’s rummaging around the lounge room, fuckin’ lounge room, fuckever it is, tryin’ to find something for him to sit on, “no. I jumped. You hung there like an oversized dead baby.”

“Oversized dead baby, why the fuck would anyone carry around a dead baby in a front pack? Wait, don't fucking answer that. You probably know some poor fuckin' crazy ass soul who did somethin' like that. Or carried around a doll thinkin' it was their dead baby or some fuck. Just, how the fuck did we not die on landing? You only got one leg.”

“Captain Obvious, thanks for the reminder. I almost fucking forgot.”

“I’m just sayin’. Don’t make much sense.”

“It all depends on how you strap your load.”

“Huh?”

“Fuck, I liked you better when you were passed out. Holy shit, that coffee I smell?”

“It is,” Catherine replies, setting a mug next to where she’s crouched on the floor digging shit out of a compartment thingy in a wall. 

The next mug comes Mickey’s way, “uh thanks. So this place like some kinda fuckin’ underground mansion?”

“Pretty much,” she blows a little on the steam rising slowly from her mug before she eyes him.

“Alright, that’s enough starin'. I ain’t some sideshow in the circus.”

“Well, you kind of are,” Lou replies.

His middles finger responds for him and he wonders towards Catherine, “what’s up with ginger zombie dude?”

“Pope?”

“He’s the pope?”

She smiles, stifles a laugh, “that’s his nickname. He’s, um, he’s a little, I guess you’ll just have to get to know him.”

“Don’t think I got a choice, do I?”

“We could still let ya out if you want, door’s over there,” Lou jerks her thumb to her right, “go watch that shit for yourself. But I ain’t flyin’ ya back.”

“You find anything over there yet? Fuck.”

“Yeah, I did, I’m just withholding ‘cause I love listening to you whine.”

Middle finger responds again and his senses pick up on the ginger dope walking into the room immediately. Furled brow and concern in his green eyes, landing on Mickey and making his way over. And he don’t stop ’til his arm is resting against his and he’s looking him up and down, “morning.”

“Or somethin’,” fuck, hopefully this fucker don’t try to kiss him or somethin’ queer. It’s one thing in front of Mandy. But strangers? And fuck PDA anyway. Shit’s gross. 

Good, fuck, thank fuck, he just squeezes his hand all nonchalantly where it’s hanging between them. And then he snakes that fuckin’ sneaky hand up to rest on Mickey’s lower back, “how you feel?”

“Fuckin’ peachy.”

It’s got a little bark to it, but not as much as Mickey meant. All it does is make the dope smile anyway. Fucker.

“One of the mid-90’s beanbags would be the perfect solution.”

“I don’t know if you’ll find something like that here. It all seems to either be straight out of the 70’s or brand new. He probably geared up the first time during the Cold War and then lost interest for awhile or something. Until recently.”

“Makes sense, I guess. Well,” she gets to her feet, “looks like you are shit outta luck kid. It’s either standin’ or layin’ for you. Or walkin’, moving around a little might move that fluid through your system faster. Drink the coffee too. That oughta help, diuretic effect.”

“More pissin’?”

“Yeah. It’s like if you rehydrate too quickly by chuggin’ water ‘stead of sippin’ it, your body gets confused and pisses it all out instead of letting is absorb. And now that’s sort of what you need to do. Expel the extras. And,” she shrugs, “don’t get comfortable, we gotta change out that bandaging. Often. Much more often than you did the first time. And find you something to eat.”

“Great,” she sounds like she’s makin’ shit up. But she’s probably the closest thing they got to someone who knows anything about the human body, so even if she’s makin’ it up, it sounds good. Or not good. Not really. But logical. Or somefuckingthing.

“Yah.”

Ian’s hand is rubbing now, up and down on Mickey’s lower back. And he’s kind of leaning into it. Just a little. Not enough to seem all needy or nothin’, but fuck it feels good.

—————

“Fuck, that does not feel good, that does not feel good at all! What the fuck are you doin’ back there, performin’ surgery?!”

“Mick, calm down, it’s alright, you need to stay still,” fucker’s hand ain’t makin’ a shit bit of difference on his back.

“Look, you don’t hold still I’m gonna go get the big one to hold you down.”

“You can get the big one to hold me down.”

“Mandy,” Mickey snarls at her and she grabs his hand before he can flip her off. 

Face down on the bunk, getting his ass packed. But not in a good way. 

“What? He’s hot. Isn’t he Lou?”

“He’s alright.”

“He’s kind of old for me, I guess. But it never hurts to look.”

“Fuck! It feels like you’re tryin’ to light me on fire, fuck.”

“I’m about to have them sit on you. And how do you know what it’s like to be lit on fire?”

“Iggy used to light our arm hair on fire to wake us up in the morning,” Mandy supplies.

“Sounds pleasant.”

“Fuck,” he can’t control the jolt when she fucking rips his asscheek off. Clear off, gotta be.

“Jesus Christ,” she’s wiping her ball cap across her forehead when he looks over his shoulder at her, she’s either annoyed or worried and he can’t tell the difference. 

Fuck, he don’t want to look, he really don’t want to see that shit, but his damn human instincts force his eyes to the mess, “fucking fuck, what’d you fuckers do to me? It’s like the fucking Grand Canyon, fuck.”

“Come on Mick, your ass is not even close to big enough…”

“All those fucking layers firecrotch. What the fuck? How many fucking layers a person got? You take a chunk of all of ‘em? Turn me into a geology lesson or some fuck?”

“Speaking of geology, I’ve got your other Petoskey Stone Mandy. In the small pocket of my pack,” setting her ball cap back down on her head. She sure in the fuck ain’t all fuckin’ surgeon like with her hygiene. ‘Least she’s got gloves on.

Mandy lets go of his hand, abandoning him in his time of need, and takes off with way too much excitement in her step, “what happened to the whole I’m yours and you’re mine, bitchwit?”

“Fuck you, this is for your own good,” she made record timing moving across the room and rummaging through that pack.

“The fuck you talkin’ about?”

“Oh sweet, Lou, you didn’t have to make a necklace out of it, this is awesome, thank you so much.”

“Only lived on that lake for half my life, found one stone the whole damn time. You’re there a week, find two. Gotta have some kind of wearable reminder of it.”

“This is so cool,” she plops back down on the bed, but the damn necklace chain makes it’s way around his neck, “perfect,” fuck, he wants to punch her again sometimes, but his eyes meet hers and he remembers she is still just a fuckin’ kid.

“Fuckin’ what now?”

“What? It’s supposed to be able to channel healing. You need it right now.”

“What the fuck Mandy? That why your damn rock been endin’ up somewhere under me every single fucking night? Fuck lot of good it did then.”

Shit, when his eyes rise to meet hers, hers drop like he just popped her birthday balloon or some fuck.

“Okay fine, fuck. I’ll wear it. Maybe you gotta have it with you all the damn time or something, not just at night.”

Her damn smile rises and he’s dumb enough to smile back right before Ian pins him down and a shot of pain surges through his body, “FUCK!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 reminded me I already titled a chapter 'Fuck', and I didn't want to repeat myself so it's 'FUCK' this time :)
> 
> The two times I've had an IV, I definitely thought I was starring in Ghostbusters as the Stay Puft man. But again, I know nothing about medical stuff, just that Mickey had it rough the last couple days and a little fluid imbalance is not that far fetched. 
> 
> If I ask you to do anything to get to know the AK characters it would be to YouTube a scene, any scene, of Shawn Hatosy's Pope. He's fucking creepy in all the right ways. And they can dye his hair all they want, he's still pretty damn gingery. 
> 
> The other thing about keeping Cath around is that she'd be much more willing to work with these strangers and see them as a positive addition. And then we'd have Lena, and a kid is always a good storytelling aspect in an apocalypse. 
> 
> Oh Mickey. He gives me so many avenues to use the word Fuck and work out some of my own stifled aggression.


	27. Never Had That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm?

Never Had That

 

“Check out what I found,” she half sing-songs it as she shoves the door open to the bunk room.

Ian’s forehead is all crinkled when he meets her gaze, and his eyes are a warning to be quiet. He’s half-laying, half-sitting with his back against the bunk rail, pillows jammed behind him, legs bent, caging Mickey in. And Mickey, well, he looks like a drunk, all passed out and drooling on Ian’s chest. 

“Uh, that looks comfortable,” she sighs, sitting on the very edge of the mattress to pass the book over to Ian.

He shrugs, eyeing the book, “Peter Pan.”

“The original. This place is… insane. Have you looked around at all? Or you been too busy fucking?”

His face flushes but he shakes his head, “pretty sure he feels worse than he’s letting on.”

“Well yeah, it’s Mickey. He feels like shit, but only way he’ll let you know is his annoyance meter,” trying to mimic his brows, knowing she can’t compete, “plus, I just looked at him for like all of three seconds and he didn’t wake up ready to punch whatever dare eye him in his sleep.”

Ian smiles a tired smile, closing his journal, tucking it beside the bunk and the wall. His hand falls to Mickey’s shoulder blade, “so they let you take a tour?”

“I think they’re letting us stay. I listened to the creepy one, the blonde, and Catherine talking to Lou. They went up to raid the main house, bury the dead, and see what the outside world looks like, check out the power sources and shit,” she sighs, “I want to go back out, watch it until I see something streaking through the sky.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting one more breath of fresh air either,” his head leans back against the pillow, turning towards Mandy. 

Her vision drops to her brother’s head. Moving up and down with Ian’s breathing, little thumps of motion with the rhythm of his heart. His hands are tucked under Ian’s butt, otherwise she’d grab one, instead she reaches for Peter Pan, “yeah, there’s like this room, well, the one I called the gym. So apparently it’s called the wellbeing room, it’s packed with exercise equipment and psychology journals and shit like that. The sitting room, the back corner has a shelf full of books, board games, magazines. The kitchen you must have looked around durning breakfast. Lou said the bunker has it’s own water well separate from the main house,” she shrugs, “the kitchen is well stocked, and the root cellar is bigger than my bedroom. This guy must have been preparing for a ten year hiatus down here and then a war when he came back up to the surface, the weapons supply is ridiculous.”

Watching Ian, taking note of the bags under his eyes. She sighs, getting caught in his green irises for a moment, wondering how often he’s been thinking about his family. Hoping maybe the worry about Mick is taking over most of his mind. Worry is easier than guilt. His hand has risen to stroke through Mickey’s hair, “of all the things Frank sucked at, he was always good about letting the babies sleep on his chest. Not that he ever had anything else to do but sit there and drink, but when the kids were young it was probably the best bonding they ever got with him. And Fiona sometimes, she’d sit on the couch with us when we had a fever, let us sweat all over her and shiver against her,” a sad smile rises, eyes dropping to Mickey’s form, “I just think, well, I started wondering about the whole regulating temperature thing, and I don’t know. You guys probably never had that, did you? A parent that let you sleep on their chest when you were sick.”

Mandy’s insides go a little mushy. And she can’t respond past the ball in her throat so she squeezes his hand and swallows back the tears. She doesn’t remember much of Nadiya, but the parts she does remember she didn’t seem like the type that would have laid on the couch with them when they were sick. Or read to them, and stroke their hair. She remembers reading once about orphans who aren’t smiled at, they never learn to smile. She wonders if the Milkovich kids taught each other how to smile. Maybe Nadiya still had smiles left when Colin was a baby and he passed the expression to Iggy. Iggy to Mickey and Mickey to Mandy. Mandy remembers times when she was young, hiding in her closet from Terry’s rampages. It was Mickey who usually came to find her, and he would usually smile at her and reach for her hand. But they never hugged, they never just reached out to touch just because they could. 

When the sting in her eyes recedes, she makes herself comfortable on the remaining sliver of mattress. Propping the book open and beginning, “‘All children, except one, grow up.’”

—————

“I’m sorry, about your grandma, and your uncle,” Mandy sighs, not really knowing what to say or how to act. But she feels like since she exited the bunker when they were putting shovelfuls of dirt on their fresh graves, she should at least acknowledge it. Even if they are just the first of many. 

“Thanks,” he mostly mumbles it, averts his eyes for a moment. 

She’s not sure what they’re doing out here. Watching Lou and Pope talking about the ventilation system she supposes. Deran and Craig have started gathering anything of importance from inside the house. 

Maybe they’re supposed to be keeping watch, not that it’s very hard. The fence surrounding the complex is pretty high and they’re in the middle of the desert. There just aren’t many places to hide out here in broad daylight. 

Cath and Lena are sitting on the grave of Lena’s father. Cross-legged, facing each other. The little girl is adorable, long black hair and sparkly brown eyes. Mandy hasn’t seen much of her, she’s maybe a little shy, but she caught her looking at her a couple times at breakfast.

“I don’t really know them,” J finally admits, “I guess when I was little maybe. But,” he shrugs, “not really now.”

“How’d you end up together? End of the world family reunion?”

“No,” half smile, his eyes still don’t meet hers, “my, um, my mom died. A couple months ago. Smurf was, I guess, well, my only family,” when his gaze flits her way she hopes it lingers. But it doesn’t. Scanning over the yard, landing on Lena and then dropping.

“How’d your mom die?”

“OD,” another mumble like he’s ashamed of her.

“Mine too,” Mandy offers, “it was awhile ago though.”

This time the eye contact lingers long enough that Mandy can see his eyes are hazel, and there’s something powerful behind them. She takes a deep breath and they dart away again, a shy smile on his lips. 

“So, these three are your uncles then?”

“Yeah. Didn’t know them much either, we kind of, they just weren’t really part of my life until my mom died. I guess, they just got stuck with me. But,” he shrugs, “Cath is, um, she’s pretty nice.”

“What about your dad?”

He shrugs, “don’t know him.”

“Lucky,” she sighs, his eyes darting over once again. Not for long. 

What the hell does he think she is? Like he thinks he should be embarrassed of his junkie mom and his absent dad. 

“I’m not a California girl,” she tells him. Like it makes a difference. Maybe it does. Isn’t California all money and plastic? Or hippies and granola munchers. Or gangsters and celebrities. 

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that,” a little blush creeps into his cheeks when he smiles. 

“J, come look at this,” that growly Pope guy orders.

“Sorry,” his focus on her shoulder, “um, I should…”

“Of course, go,” she excuses him before he can make it awkward. 

—————

“The fuck’s goin’ on out here?” 

She knows the worst of it is passed, as long as his ass doesn’t get infected again, but it’s still a relief to hear his voice, “getting the last of the shit from the house. Lou took J hunting, guess there’s some kind of deer and quail around here. Pope is raiding the chicken coop for eggs and then he’s going to kill the birds to eat. Craig and Deran are bringing the freezer and it’s contents into the bunker. And I am standing here.”

“No shit.”

He looks pale as fuck. Well, more pale than he has all summer in this insane heat, “sit down somewhere.”

“No. Been layin’ all day,” arms crossed at his chest, brows up like a dare to tell him again.

“Do we have a countdown yet?” Ian wonders from where he’s come to a halt beside Mickey.

“Tonight’s the night according to the last announcement by NASA.”

“Think we can watch it?”

“I don’t know. J seems to be convinced it’s a government conspiracy too. Seems a little convenient that the NASA announcement was made and then communications failed across the world,” she shrugs, “so, who knows? I guess we could probably wait until we see the first firework and then hide.”

“J?”

“I guess his name is Joshua, but he prefers J.”

Mickey doesn’t have to say a damn thing, his face is conveying it all.

“What? It only makes sense to make friends with the people we’re going to be living with for fuck knows how long. I’m not going to fuck him.”

His brows are still doing the speaking for him so she flips him off. Whatever, he gets a good lay for this little underground adventure, why the fuck can’t Mandy? And what the hell difference does it make to him anyway?

“Well, I’m going to go check out the house. Probably some clothes and stuff in there. It wouldn’t kill us to help out,” though when she scans Mickey she kind of wonders if that last part is true.

—————

Mandy watches the flames dancing across the background of blue sky, brown dirt, and tan rocks. Flashing across the faces of the people standing around the bonfire. Lou got a deer, sent J out with the best parts of the meat and told him she’d find her way back over when she finished cleaning the rest. She’s still not here.

They might die tonight but at least they’ll eat well. Chicken, deer, fresh fruit and veggies. Once the fresh stuff is gone it’ll be canned and dried food aside from what’s frozen. Seems like they’ve decided to drink the beer and take the hard stuff underground with them.  
She sighs, watching the fluids dripping from the meats into the flames. She can only hear a little of the exchanges between J and his uncles. Pope seems to be the one more or less in charge. But as far as she’s concerned, he’s creepy as hell. 

She finds herself watching the sky more than anything else. Wondering when. When will it happen? What will happen? Will they survive? Is there any chance? And if they do, what comes next? 

“Craig, you fucking idiot, do you really think getting amped right now is a good decision?”

Her eyes are dragged over to where Craig is snorting a line off the porch rail. 

“Deran,” Pope orders, “get that shit away from him.”

Deran only shrugs, taking another toke. His hair is long, blonde. He’s got a beard and blue eyes. And the only times she’s heard him talk, he’s been complaining. The whole time they were carrying stuff from the house to the bunker, he was talking about how they always have to do the grunt work while Smurf and Baz took credit for it, so why now that they’re dead, are they following Pope’s orders? Craig didn’t have much to say. Didn’t seem to care about anything more than checking out Mandy’s ass. She doesn’t mind, really. But she supposes Mickey’s eyebrows are right, there’s no need to start fucking anyone. They don’t know a thing about them, they seem dangerous but if they are their only hope then they can’t fuck it up. Fucking one of them, that would end badly. She’s pretty sure that’s what his eyebrows were saying earlier anyway.

Where the fuck is he? Jesus, Ian is nowhere to be seen either. Those stupid horny fuckers. Seriously, this is the worst situation possible to be a fucking third wheel. 

Now there’s a fight erupting between the Cody boys and she is not about to stand around for that. She takes a gun, a smoke, and a beer and heads off. Following the trail that J came back from about an hour ago. Taking her sweet time in this heat, she’s heard people say before that dry heat isn’t as bad as heat and humidity. But fuck that, once it’s over a hundred degrees, it’s just fucking hot whether it’s dry or damp doesn’t fucking matter. 

Through the gate, she stops at the ridge line that overlooks a little valley beneath. More rocks and sand and dirt. And it’s not like the sand around the great lakes. It’s like hard packed and rocky, nothing like the movie scenes of sandy deserts. Random shrubs scattered around. Her eyes catch on some movement, watching some kind of hare running across the trail. Fuck. Well, if they die tonight at least she got to see something more than the Southside of Chicago before she went. 

Wiping sweat off her brow, understanding now why Lou always has a ball cap on her head, her hand rises to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun. Fucking brightest sun she’s ever seen, the reflection off the desert is worse than the glare off the surface of the lakes. The desert smells exactly how a pile of dirt and rocks should smell, it smells like a pile of dirt and rocks. All those incredible smells of nature, the green leaves swaying in the breeze, the rich Earth underfoot, the water, the grass, the sound of the wildlife; she misses it already. It’s really a shame how hard the human race has been trying for decades to destroy the planet that supports them. 

She shakes her head to herself, eyes catching on the line of gray smoke rising from her lit cig, “idiot,” chastising herself as she drops it, half smoked, on the ground and stomps it out, “I promise,” she tells nature around her, “if we survive this, I will do better next time around.”

—————

She watches Lou’s profile as she tips the canteen back and takes a long drink. Dried blood up to her elbows, smeared across her forehead where she keeps running her arm and her ball cap across her sweat soaked skin. 

She found her behind a picker bush, done retrieving the meat from the deer. Just sitting here, knife in hand, staring at the death in front of her. She wasn’t startled when Mandy sat down, seeming to have known she was coming. She didn’t speak. Whatever this woman has seen of life and death far surpasses what Mandy has seen, and there’s something in the air around her that makes Mandy think she doesn’t want to see it anymore.

“Normally hunting midday ain’t productive. And mid summer ain’t smart. More chance of parasites and shit.”

She’s not sure if she’s supposed to respond, so she doesn’t. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her hand rise, removing a joint from behind her ear, sparking it up with hands that are a little shaky. The puff of smoke from her lips heads skyward and she offers it over to Mandy. 

“I ain’t gonna be worth a shit for the next few days,” pressing her hands together, maybe an attempt to stop the shakes.

“If it makes you feel any better I doubt you’ll be alone in the process. Craig was snorting coke earlier, doubt he’s got enough to span the time underground. But they hauled a few bottles of booze into the bunker, so…”

A snort that translates to something like ‘getting trashed underground sounds horrible’. And Mandy agrees. She’s pretty damn certain it’s alcohol with Lou, nothing more, but that’s enough to dry out from. 

They’re silent until the joint is smoked and she sighs, “last one for our last day on this Earth,” looking around at the land surrounding them, a wistful expression on her face turning into resignation as her eyes drop, knees are drawn to her chest and her arms are resting loosely around them, “s’pose every cycle eventually gets broken, huh? Orbits even,” she half smiles.

“I guess if we survive, then we have the power to break some cycles, don’t we?”

“Think so?”

“Yeah. Why not? If most of humanity is destroyed, we saw traces of that already. And only more in the next few months or years. If we make it out, what’s left of the world is whatever we want it to be.”

“S’pose. If we fight for it. There are going to be people who make it out, people that are fucked up beyond anything you or I know. The self-proclaimed prophets, the maniacs who are capable of surviving anything and the only thing they lose in the process is their humanity. People who are willing to ride the coattails of others until they are no longer useful, then put them down like nothing more than a horse with a broken leg. The power struggle will be nothing we’ve seen before. On a scale we’ve never seen before. It’ll be brutal and violent for years, decades. If resources are limited then it’ll be a fight for every single thing you have. Your supplies, your abilities, your body, your sanity,” her voice drops, barely a whisper, “the fight in your head, after you’ve done things you never thought yourself brutal enough to do, that fight, that’s the one that’ll take you down eventually.”

“Maybe,” Mandy sighs, waiting until her blue eyes rise to meet hers, “or maybe the life we led before the world ended is the one that’s prepared us for the after.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't actually tell what color Finn Cole's (J's) eyes are, so we're calling them hazel. I'm stealing the AK cast out of their character arcs in season one. J has more potential for storytelling at that point because he's still mostly an innocent kid that grew up with a junkie mom - later seasons he's pretty brutal - so we're going to start with the more clean slate version of him. I also think this is the point in his arc that he could bond with someone like Mandy fairly quickly. Whether it buds into romance or not, to be decided later. But a friend around her age, sure why not? I also think there's still plenty of potential for her and Lou to bond more as well even with the age gap. When I think of me at seventeen - I could have benefited from a thirty-something role model, even a flawed one.
> 
> I'm hoping to get to the next chapter before the end of the night, but if not, then tomorrow. Is the end near? ... Yes, I believe it is.


	28. The Fucktionary By Mickey Fucking Milkovich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wait, is it ending? It's ending? Now?
> 
> It's the end of the world as we know it, it's the end of the world as we know it. And Mickey feels almost, sort of, kind of fine... how do you find a comfortable place to rest when half your ass is ruined?

The Fucktionary By Mickey Fucking Milkovich

 

Ian’s face keeps appearing and disappearing every time the hammock sways. The sun is lighting his hair on fire, his skin a pink glow of sunburn. Brows furled, forehead creased at whatever book is in his hand while he’s slouched on a garage stool he hauled over here to sit with Mickey. They found a bunch of shit in the master bedroom. Decades worth of articles and books with the overwhelming theme of conspiracy. Fuckin’ whackos hangin’ out in the desert buildin’ underground fortresses and shit. Just to get killed by some So Cal family who came rollin’ in with more guns and maybe the element of surprise on their side. Just like that. 

At least they had the decency to bury the preppers in a mass grave. Used a damn backhoe to dig it and then shoved their bodies in with the bucket, but fuckever, it’s more respectable than lettin’ ‘em rot in the sun and get eaten by vultures. 

So the hammock is tied to the only trees in the yard big enough to support one. And it ain’t bad. More comfortable than anything else he’s sat on in recent history. Laid on. Fuckever. He tried to convince Ian to fuck him upstairs, but he must not have been very convincing when he said he felt fuckin’ fine, ‘cause the dummy refused to do more than suck him off. 

So fine, he fuckin’ gets it. His ass smells like burned flesh ‘cause it is burned flesh, antibiotic ointment, and fuckin’ gauze. He wouldn’t want to fuck that either. And it ain’t like there’s a way to fuck without at least the vibrations traveling through his ass muscles and shaking that fuckin’ gaping canyon in his cheek. Fuck, that’s probably how the asteroid impact point will look when aliens come down from another solar system in a few thousand fucking years to find Earth rebuilding itself all free from humans and shit. Aliens take over, maybe they’ll have better luck. 

He can smell whatever is cooking over the fire on the backside of the house every time the wind blows. It’s making his stomach growl.

“Secrets of fuckin’ life in the guy’s journals or what?”

His face rises, but his eyes don’t, “hmm?”

He’d smack him if he could reach him, “the fuck you readin’ in there?”

“Oh,” now they rise, the only deep green thing Mickey has seen since he passed out way back in Michigan, “no, it’s just, this guy says that Joshua Trees,” he points in the direction of some weird lookin’ bush thing at the front gate of the house, “they only grow in two places on Earth. Jerusalem and here, in the Mojave. And something about how they’re seen at the gates of heaven and the gates of hell.”

He waits a minute, letting his deep-in-thought face that don’t appear often, disappear behind the hammock and then reappear before he wonders, “so?”

“So if that’s true, then are we at the gates of heaven of the gates of hell?”

“Fuck should I know?”

“It’s theoretical, you know based on theory?”

“Ofuckingpinion and assfuckingumption.”

“Assfuckingumption. Nice.”

“Or oh fucking pinion.”

“Oh fucking pinion me,” he’s got that dopey fucking smile on his face now.

“Think I did oh fucking pinion you back at the lake with the handcuffs. Ass fucking umption: when you think ass fucking will happen but you got no real fuckin’ reason to think that.”

“The fucktionary by Mickey fucking Milkovich.”

“I’m a regular fucking Merriam Webster.”

“I don’t think that’s a person.”

“Fuckever firecrotch,” fuck that smile, “c’mere fucker.”

—————

Mickey’s always known he’s fucked for life. It’s the first thing every Milkovich child learns. Welcome the fucking world, here’s a fucking pacifier, by the way you’re fucked for life. The first time he felt like maybe there was a chance he wasn’t fucked for life, the very first time, was when that idiot looked at him back in the dugout with a fucking galaxy dancing on his irises. Looked at him like his entire fucking world revolved around Mickey and Mickey only. 

And since then? Sure, he’s felt it. He’s felt it about a thousand times since then. And right now, with that dummy hangin’ on to the edge of the hammock, kissin’ him until neither of them can breathe before he lets it go, lets it sway back to him, grabs it again, kisses him until they can’t breathe, then lets it go and starts all over again. 

Mickey sure in the fuck don’t feel so fucked for life right now. 

Not now. Not with the stars and moon and a million goddamn sun’s worth of possibilities and endless lives swirling on the surface of those green orbs. Not with the heat and passion and lust behind those kisses. Not with the gentle sway of the hammock being stopped by the gentler nature of the hands of the idiot he’s fallen head over fucking heels for even though he maybe didn’t want to. But it don’t feel that way anymore. It feels now like he never had a fucking option. Like those skinny freckled fingers were going to peel back every single goddamn layer of Mickey’s armor for a fucking century if that’s how long it took. 

It sure in the fuck don’t feel so fucked for life when he stops the hammock and slides one hand through Mickey’s hair, leaning forehead to forehead this time before he lets it go. The wispy thin green leaves of whatever tree he’s attached to fingering the blue desert sky. Ian’s face. His sweet dopey smile, this time the hammock stops and his lips land on Mickey’s jaw, right next to his ear. The trail of kisses follows his jaw to his chin then dips down into his neck. And he’s certain the fucker is going to cave, he’s going to give in and the assfuckingumption will no longer be an umption but a fact.

Then he lets the hammock go. The light green fingers against a mural of sky. Ian. The trail lengthens, makes it’s way across his chin, over to his other ear and then releases. The light green wings flapping against a blue sky and an overly bright ray of sunshine streaking across in the distance. 

Ian. His smile. His hand this time slides down Mickey’s arm, finds his hand and holds on. He remembers the store now, letting Ian wrap his hand around his on the shelf. And maybe that was the first time he didn’t feel just fucked for life, but he felt like more than that, like he was needed and it was okay to be needed and it was okay to need. It was okay to need someone. And it was okay to touch someone and let them touch Mickey back. But it wasn’t. Not really.

The hammock releases, but the hand doesn’t. The swing doesn’t go far, it stalls out at the reach of their arms, the wind blows the leaves away from the sky and Mickey’s eyes fall on a cloud that wasn’t there before. A jet stream maybe. Or a trail of smoke from a fire upwind. 

The first reverberation is no more than a ripple on the surface of a calm lake. Just a tiny ripple. Just enough to make Ian’s brows dip, just enough to make Mickey’s jaw clamp tight. Just enough to make their hands clench one another’s until it hurts.

The second one is bigger. Enough to shake the trees. Enough to make voices sound from the other side of the house. Enough to make his breath catch and his body move.

The third one is bigger yet. Enough to make him stand through the pain of his body throwing fire through his asscheek, he bites his tongue and his grip on Ian’s stays firm. They don’t talk, they move. They move quick. They move on instinct. Shelter, survival. Life.

The sounds are rushing too quick and mingling together into nothingness in his head. His vision is jumping with panic and blurring with pain but it finds every single moving body. From Lena and Cath, being shoved into the entrance of the bunker by Craig. To Pope and Deran who are gathering the last of the food as quickly as they can and making towards the bunker. To J who is running. Running? Away? He’s running away, towards the back of the yard. Down a trail that Mickey can follow with his eyes out into the desert to a ridge-line before it disappears into smoke and fog and a wind demon swirling away from them.

No Mandy. No Lou. But if they shoved the women in first, then they’re underground already. Craig is holding the door open while his brothers duck inside. His eyes land on Ian and Mickey, Mickey’s stomach drops to his ass with the fourth ripple in the Earth, the sound of crumbling rocks and a falling tree. And he wonders, will this guy let them in? He has no reason to keep them. His vision is getting fuzzy and his hand is sweating in Ian’s and he’s not letting go.

Craig’s hand is extended in the air, waving them forwards and he’s hollering something that Mickey can’t hear through the blood in his ears and the fuzz in his head. His eyes land on J’s form again. Fuckin’ crazy bastard, guess he wants to die out in the elements rather than face the next fuckin’ three to five years underground with his crazy uncles. Should Mickey be taking that as a sign to turn around and fucking run as far away from this family as possible? Fuck. But Mandy is already down there.

With the next shake, he loses his balance. Ian’s grip tightening on his left, Craig within reach now, his giant fucking hand clamps down on Mickey’s arm and he jerks them both inside with him. Shutting and bolting the door behind them. They land in an unceremonious heap in the hallway of the bunker. Between the first door and the second. And his first thought is that Craig don’t seem to give a fuck about them bein’ queer ‘cause he ain’t shovin’ them off or beating them straight yet. 

He can feel Ian’s hands at his hips, giving him a tug to his feet, the fire in his ass spreading through his leg but he stands and fucking hopes that little jaunt didn’t rip anything open. 

His hand is offering itself to Craig, helping him to his feet. Fuck, this guy is a fucking giant. Mickey nods at him, a silent ‘thank you for not sacrificing the queers to the apo gods’. He nods back, his hands sliding his hair out of his face. What is it with these fucking surfer dudes and their long fuckin’ hair? Is it strictly for the effect of snapping their head back and sending a spray of water behind them when they get out of the ocean? Ain’t like it’s helpful being in their way on the boards. Do these guys even surf? 

“Go all the way inside,” he offers after his eyes dart around the hallway like he’s not sure if he wants to go back out and challenge nature or if he wants to slide inside to hide this shit out with the rest of them, “I’ll wait for them.”

“Them?” Deran is the first one that gets a word past his lips.

“Yeah. J went back to see if he could find the other girls before it gets any worse. Go inside, shut the door, I’ll wait here.”

“Jesus,” Deran’s turn to push his hair out of his face with his hands, “there’s no way in hell they’re coming back from that shit.”

The other girls? 

Ian’s hand is on Mickey’s lower back and holy fuck, it feels like something is leaking down his leg but he knows he sure in the fuck didn’t piss himself. Did he? Milkoviches only piss themselves when they’ve had a few too many and pass out on the way home. They don’t piss themselves for fear. Do they? His hand drops to pocket, feel it the old school way, the way all boys felt around their junk when they were first startin’ to understand what an oncoming boner felt like. Well, that ain’t the case here. Case here is… dry. Good. He didn’t piss himself. Fuck. Damn it. That means he’s leaking elsewhere. That means Lou is going to have another fucking science experiment with his asscheek.

The other girls? 

He saw Cath and Lena. Craig just said something but suddenly there’s so much fucking blood rushing in his ears that he can’t hear a damn thing and his vision is getting so fucking blurry again that he, “breathe Mickey,” it’s quiet, it’s right against his ear. And now that hand is fucking suffocating him from his lower back and spreading through his chest. He feels his elbow make contact with Ian’s ribs and he hears him grunt past all the other shit that’s swirling in his head.

“Mandy?! You talkin’ about Mandy?!” he’s turning towards the outer door, he’s going back out there. He’s going back out there for his sister. He’s not leaving her. He’s not leaving her out there. 

I’m yours and you’re mine and we can’t ever forget that.

Even at the end of the fucking world.

Ian’s standin’ in his way and his ears are ringing, but he shoves him anyway, “the fuck outta my way firecrotch.”

The shove only made him brace himself by grabbing Mickey’s arms, “Mickey, you aren’t…”

“We already wasted enough medical supplies on you,” he’s nearly certain that was Deran’s voice, “I’ll go. Guess it’s my sister too.”

Yeah, that was Deran. 

Mickey’s eyes land on Ian’s face, on his eyes, and something inside of him calms. Just a little. He can feel his fingers digging into his arms and he can hear movement behind him. There’s sweat beaded on Ian’s forehead and worry in his brow. There’s desperation floating in green and he fuckin’ gets it. If he walks out there, Ian will follow him. ‘Cause Ian ain’t got shit for a reason to stay alive if he ain’t got Mickey or Mandy. 

The movement behind him grows and he lets Ian steer him towards the wall to get out of the way of whatever human being is catapulting himself out the outer door, with his middle finger in the air aimed at whatever human being is behind them, shouting, “what the fuck Craig?”

The heavy iron door closes with a resounding thud, but not until after they’ve heard the rushing of sand and rocks and pieces of the house being destroyed. 

“Great, now we got a giant with a gas mask and a snout full of cocaine out there,” Deran mumbles, “fucking idiot.”

He’s already gone from the doorway by the time Mickey peels his eyes off Ian’s. He can hear his voice though, telling the others that Craig is out there. 

Mickey’s fingers rise, grinding into his eyes, trying like hell to stifle whatever the fuck is starting to rise and burn around the panic. Adrenaline coursing through his veins only a moment ago, starting to fizzle and that ball of things that sometimes cuts off his breath is lodged squarely in his throat when he tries to swallow. 

His fingers are still rubbing vigorously at his eyes, creating the colors and explosions that he’s assuming are happening outside as well, but at least these ones he can blink away when he’s done. Ian’s hands still on his arms, they’ve started to slide, rising to his shoulders, over them, and down his back. Staying on his shoulder-blades, giving the tug towards him. 

And sure, Mickey supposes they got nothing to do right now. But sit here and fuckin’ wait. Sit here and fuckin’ wait to see if that giant fueled by cocaine can find his sister before the apocalypse does. Sit here and wait, with his heart lodged in his throat, his stomach in knots, the fire in his ass starting to spread, and fuckever fluid is leaking out of his eyes now and pouring down his face, soaking into Ian’s t-shirt. Nothing to do but stand here, in the hallway of this bunker. And maybe if he was the praying type, he’d be praying. Or if he was the hoping type, he’d be hoping. 

All the shit his childhood has taught him about survival, ‘pparently he don’t know shit about it after all. 

But he does know this, if the world is ending, well, it sure in the fuck don’t hurt to be dyin’ in the arms of this big ginger idiot who’s kissin’ the top of his fucking head right now. And fuck him for being so damn tall already and nowhere near done growin’. He’ll be as tall as that fuckin’ coke giant by the time they can leave this fuckin’ bunker. 

Fuck, it’s hard to breathe in here. It’s hard to breathe knowin’ Mandy is fillin’ her lungs with smoke and fire and dust and destroyed Earth and radioactive whatever the fuck is flying around up there. Or maybe her lungs have reached capacity by now. Maybe it’s over and he just ain’t felt it yet. Fuck, fuck, maybe this is all just a fuckin’ dream. Some super long and stupid elaborate dream and he’ll wake up in the gutter somewhere in the Southside, still wearing his security vest from his gig at the Kash N Grab. He’ll wake up, straighten that shit out and head to work. See if Ian wants to spend the night next time his dad takes his brothers for a run out of town. Maybe his upcoming birthday, yeah, he could beg off the run for his birthday. He could ask Ian to spend the night. They could sit up and watch Segal movies and share cigs, drink some beers and maybe fuckin’ make out. Maybe. Fuck.

He ain’t wakin’ up. Fuck. 

The steady thumping of Ian’s heart against his face is only sort of helping. Not in the way it helped earlier, but it’s keeping him here, grounded. Grounded. Maybe grounded is all he can hope for right now. 

Thump. Thud. Thump. Thud.

Thud. Thud. THUD.

Fuck. 

Ian realizes it at the exact moment Mickey does. Pulling away from each other, rushing towards the door. Pulling it open to a fucking natural tornado worth of debris and a fucking human tornado worth of limbs, bodies, hair, all that shit that makes up a person. And holy fucking fuck, if all of those limbs are still attached and all of the bodies are still alive, then fuck, fuck. Then fuck, they just survived the first round of the apocalypse. Or maybe this is the second round. Maybe the first was all the pre-apocaylpse killing happening all over the place.

The door gets slammed shut and the wind and debris being blown in by nature stops. The hallway calms. The rushing in his ears and the blur in his mind is starting to clear again, fuck, it’s weird how fast that shit appears and then disappears. And fuck, he can see his hand rising, he can see it reach out. He can see it landing on the pile of human and he can see it make contact with black hair. The only black hair in the group. He can feel his body moving towards it even though it ain’t moved yet. He can feel his hands moving down her head, to her shoulders, sliding into her armpits and dragging her. She’s face down and she ain’t movin’ yet. 

His breath his caught and everything in his body is screaming at him to stop, everything in his mind is screaming at him that he don’t want to see this, he don’t need to see this. If she’s dead, then he don’t need to see it.

Fear is gripping his chest in a tight cold grasp and he yanks on her bony frame. There are people moving all over in this hallway. There are bodies gaining their bearings and there are voices. But he can’t focus on any of it. He can’t hear any of it.

Breath stuck in his throat as he gives her another tug towards him. 

Jesus fucking Christ, he startles nearly to his feet when she moves, head turning towards him with a fucking gas mask on. Her hands look so white against her black hair when she reaches around to unclasp the black straps of the mask before she hurls herself at his chest. When he stumbles backwards on impact, it’s Ian’s chest that meets his back. Ian’s arms that wrap around him to get to his sister. Her face burrows it’s way into his right shoulder, Ian’s into his neck. 

A cacophony of coughs and laughs and sighs and all this weird relieved shit that’s exiting people’s mouths is sounding off inside of this hallway. Mandy is laughing hysterics against his chest, he can hear what he’s certain is Lou’s chuckling. He opens his eyes to see her leaning against the wall, knees bent towards her chest, dried blood up to her arms, some fresh stuff smeared on her face, a few scrapes on her real shin. 

He fucking squeezes the hell out of Mandy and he’s about to holler at her, tell her never to leave his fucking sight again, but after he can find his fucking voice. It’ll have to wait. 

J’s on his hands and knees, head hanging low. His sounds are more like coughing and Mickey supposes he’s going to have to thank him at some point for going out there. Kid’s like, what? Sixteen, seventeen? Of course he thinks he’s invincible. Running through a fucking apocalypse to be the big hero. Well, his coughing is turning into heaving. And now Mickey’s looking away from that shit. 

Taking a good inhale of his sister’s shoulder when his eyes find Craig. Oh shit, he don’t look so hot either. Stumbling to his feet, hand over his mouth like he’s gonna find a place to puke that ain’t his nephew’s back. He shoves through the inner door and darts towards the kitchen. 

And Lou ain’t far behind him. But she don’t seem to be in any hurry whatsoever. Guess she’s a little better at holdin’ puke in her mouth or somethin’.

“You gonna hurl?” wondering into Mandy’s hair.

“No, asshole. They gave me the gas mask.”

“Just checkin’,” he waits, just a beat, a tiny second of a second before wonderin’, “what’s it like up there?”

He receives a shove for it, a huge eye roll when her head leaves his chest and the answer from the kid on the floor is, “worth throwing up over.”

Fuckever that means. 

“Jesus Mick, I can smell your burned ass over the vomit in here and the dirt in my nostrils.”

His middle finger responds for him, that damn Mandy smile rises, her eyes misty when they dart away. But she’s whole. She’s here. And there ain’t a single one of ‘em just standing around watching the world end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, we made it.
> 
> I'm debating how I want to do the next chapter. I will somehow fill in some events at some point through one of the characters on the outside, but I haven't decided yet if I want to do it all flashback style throughout the rest of the piece. Or if I want to have one of them narrate it to another character. Or if I just want to do the next chapter picking up from where Mandy left off last chapter. Too many possibilities. Craig could be a fun one to narrate the destruction - I've never written anything from his perspective but in ways I think he could be almost as fun inner-monologue-wise as Mickey. Almost. 
> 
> I guess we'll see...


	29. Bunker: Year One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's overview of year one underground.

Bunker: Year One

 

******** Bunker: Day 1 **********

“How the fuck should I know what the fuck happened up there?” her ball cap is yanked off her head angrily only to be shoved back down again and Mickey wonders when the hell it’s going to just disintegrate in her hands that are still dirty and blood-stained and kind of shaky. 

“You’re the one with the military background, right?” Deran’s leanin’ against the wall, actin’ like he ain’t interested in what’s goin’ on, but he’s interested.

“Bomb, shock, heat, fragmentation. Asteroid, impact, shocks, heat, fucking blast us all off the face of this goddamned planet. Fuck if I know. Maybe fuckin’ Bruce Willis was drillin’ that fucker and it exploded right before it hit the atmosphere and we got fuckin’ lucky but not as lucky as the movie version of us. Jesus Christ,” her eyes are narrowed and she keeps looking at him like she’s not sure of who he is but she’s exactly sure of where he came from and she don’t really like him, “okay, let’s think about this shit for a fuckin’ minute. Worldwide government conspiracy, open season on humans. The fucking options here are… endless. You think it all revolves around the superpowers? They might be the only ones with nukes could blast across the ocean, but they ain’t the only ones can build a bomb. I can fuckin’ tell ya that part first hand.”

“Terrorist organizations thrive on chaos,” Pope adds. Fuck, he’s creepy.

“Exactly. So this announcement was made three weeks ago. Don’t mean it wasn’t in the works for only three weeks. Fuck, it wouldn’t even take a full worldwide conspiracy. Only take a few shitheads talking in private, only take a few lunatics with nuclear codes. Not even, fuck. So I want to take out the US and I ain’t got some high profile nuclear program backin’ me? I pack a bunch of bombs into shipping containers. Won’t be hard from there to take out port cities. Won’t be hard from there to get a few fuckin’ suicide bombers to load that shit up on semis and wreak havoc on inland cities. I’m a nutcase with a nuke and I hear it’s open season? I aim for the States. We ain’t got a lot of friends these fuckin’ days, do we?”

“Doesn’t take much to create panic, we saw it before we left Oceanside.”

“Yeah, we been in bumfuck nowhere all this time and there ain’t much to panic over when you got population two hundred or something. But we saw some shit, even in small towns there’s plenty of bodies startin’ to pile up. That announcement was made, the killin’ started by humans. The fuck happens to people in hospitals? Institutions? Prisons? They all just locked up and starved to death? Or some of ‘em get freed before the guards left their posts? Unmedicated schitzos walkin’ around.”

“Guards would definitely leave the prisoners to die behind bars,” Pope’s arms cross over his chest now. 

Mickey pretty much agrees with that. Fuck, his ass hurts. Leaning partially against the back of the couch, next to where Ian has planted himself. He’s not sure where everyone else is. Maybe cleaning up. And maybe he should get his ass dressing changed sooner rather than later, but he sure in the fuck don’t want Lou’s dirty fuckin’ hands anywhere near that crater. 

“You see any military action whatsoever? You’re a stone’s throw from Pendleton, those fuckers should have been crawling around keeping the order. Did you see ‘em? I didn’t see jack shit for police presence. Don’t that seem strange? Asteroid’s comin’ to wipe us all out and suddenly ain’t a soul in uniform keepin’ people from killin’ each other.”

“We didn’t see anything either,” Deran confirms. 

“Well maybe someone dropped a big one on San Diego and that’s what we felt here. Seems like a pretty fuckin’ good choice if they want to take out a good chunk of population and military.”

“So you’re thinkin’ there was never an asteroid?” Mickey wonders.

“I mean, sure, those fuckin’ press releases were good and all, but ain’t nothin’ can’t be made in Hollywood. Think NASA ain’t got the technology Hollywood does? Whatever was goin’ on up there, is goin’ on up there? It ain’t one giant impact point that wiped out the damn planet in one bounce.”

“You see shit flyin’ through the sky?”

She nods, “sure didn’t look like a giant rock to me.”

“Jesus, are we talking nuclear bombs and biological?” Deran wonders.

“Chlorine, nerve gas, fuckin’ agent orange, CS, fuckin’ viruses and all that shit. The powers that be wanna take out half the world’s population? Ain’t no one holdin’ back.”

“Knew I should’ve gone to Canada,” Mickey mutters, his eyes landing on Ian’s. 

“So whatever you guys were breathing in just the time you were out there, that made you all sick nearly immediately?”

She nods, her face is conveying all kinds of annoyance and even Mickey wants to tell blondie to shut the fuck up and quit asking questions, but he wants to know more himself so if he ain’t the one gettin’ the death glare, then he ain’t gonna stop him, “US is just part of it. Sure, we got plenty of enemies. But a lot of those enemies don’t have the weapons to send our way. So maybe Europe is tearin’ apart Russia. Maybe Africa is just continuing to tear itself apart with genocide and they ain’t even heard about this shit. Maybe India is,” she shrugs, “fuck knows about India. Maybe one of the superpowers decided that’d be a pretty damn good place to knock out a shit ton of population. And maybe the Middle East is just carrying on with public beheadings. Mexico? South America? Total cartel domination. I don’t fucking know. I do know this,” she taps on her leg, “I sure in the fuck didn’t get no recall notice from the good old US Navy to keep the peace and try to keep some fuckin’ civilians alive.”

“Can you, um,” Ian starts and Mickey just really wants him to stop ‘cause he knows what’s comin’ out of his mouth next, “can you be recalled when you’re medically discharged?”

She looks like she wants to spit at him, or spit at the ground, or fuckever. She swallows instead and shrugs, her eyes drop to the ground for a minute and Mickey wonders if she planned on spending her life flying. 

“Well, whatever is floating around in the air up there, and got sucked down into my lungs, if it causes me to grow a second head or some shit, here’s what you gotta do,” her fingers tap down twice on her chest once on her forehead, “Mozambique me. Two to the chest, one to the head,” smirking, “one to either head. Fuckin’ re-coin that phrase, however you want,” she shoves herself out from the table with a sigh, “alright, I’m fuckin’ tired. We got months to chit chat about theories and decide our next move in a fuckin’ hole in the ground. Right now, I’m cleanin’ up,” her eyes land on Mickey’s, “you got ten minutes before you gotta be ass-up and ready for a repack.”

His middle finger responds and he knows Ian’s about to say somethin’ stupid like, ‘he’s used to that’, so before he can get a word out, Mickey’s glare lands on his face and shuts him the hell up. Doesn’t scare the smile away though, like the fucker knows that Mickey knows what he was thinkin’ and he thinks he’s all clever or somethin’. Smug fucker. 

—————

So it’s only like nine minutes gone by before she’s standin’ in the middle of the bunk room with raised brows and annoyance written all over her face. She looks different when she’s scrubbed clean and it just don’t look right. 

Mickey sighs, eyeing Ian like he’s s’posed to read his mind. He ain’t gonna ask for it, but yeah, that shit earlier with using him as a damn mattress, that made this shit a whole fuckton easier. Ian’s mouth rises into that fuckin’ smug smile again and he sits. Motioning Mickey over. Guess he ain’t gonna lay for him. Fucker.

“It’s only us. So you gotta hold his arms and legs.”

“Yep. On it,” hands motioning now, but Mickey can’t read his damn mind. He ain’t that dumb. Fuck, “kneel. Chest to my thighs, head against my hip, I’m going to pin your arms with my elbows, dig my heels into the back of your thighs, hands on your lower back. And you’re going to hold really fucking still. And shut the fuck up.”

“Fuckin’ bossy Gallagher,” and he can’t help it that his voice comes out with kind of a ‘you’re really fucking turning me on with that shit’ sound to it. 

“Are we flirting or are we ripping bandaids off?”

But yeah, being fucking held down, it ain’t Mickey’s strong suit. It makes him want to punch and kick and fuck people up. Even if those people are only trying to help. Even if one of those people is Ian. So he’s glad the dope just talked him through the position and he’s glad for that little detail of the hands on the back. And he’s glad his hands are free and he can grip Ian’s hips. And he’s glad that dummy is leaned forward, making him feel all boxed in but somehow okay ‘cause he can smell him and he can feel his body heat and when Lou yanks his pants down and sighs he kind of wants to donkey kick her anyway, and when she rips off the tape he really wants to donkey kick her. Fuck, ‘least he ain’t hairy. 

“What the fuck? You run a fuckin’ marathon on your way to the end of the world? Look, this ain’t gonna heal if you can’t figure what the fuck ‘take it easy’ means, alright? And don’t think these boys are gonna be opposed to putting you down if you get to be too much of a burden, alright?”

“Fuck Lou, coulda warned me,” his whole body goes tense and his mouth tastes like metal when she yanks the old plug out, even with her hand putting the pressure on the cheek around it, it ain’t helping. 

“Yeah, well, I’d think you’d be used to this by fuckin’ now.”

“Nah usually a butt plug comes out in a gentler manner.”

Ian snickers and Mickey wonders if he’ll ever get turned on by his ass again. Watchin’ this? Fuck, he can’t say he’d be able to erase that image from his brain if the tables were turned. 

“You watchin’ this Chuckie Finster? You’re gonna be doin’ it yourselves for the next couple days.”

“Chuckie Finster?”

“Rugrats.”

“Oh. Wait, where you going?”

“Just into the depths of alcohol withdrawal hell. Don’t expect nothin’ from me.”

Neither one of ‘em has a damn clue what to say. Maybe there is nothin’ to say. But he supposes that won’t stop Ian from mentioning, “my dad tried to sober up a few times. He never made it. But that’s different, you’re like…”

“Don’t got a choice at this point.”

“I was going to say you’re a lot stronger than him. But yeah, no choice, not really, unless you want to brew your own prison-style, or…” Mickey pinches him until he squirms, clears his throat and starts over, “I guess I’m just trying to say we’re here for you. I mean, I know you’ll be feeling like shit and probably crabby as hell, yelling at us and stuff.”

Fuck, he can’t see the kid’s face but he’s certain of that stupid dopey hopeful expression with a little shyness thrown in at the offer. Fuck Frank.

“I guess, I just, want you to know, it’s…”

“Won’t change our opinions of ya,” Mickey provides, “it don’t make you a weak person or nothin’.”

“Gee thanks Les Brown. But I think I got this.”

“Fuckever, do it alone then.”

She snorts her response at him and he don’t feel like arguing it any further, or reminding her that they’re only alive because she flew them out here, shoved them out of a plane, and cut half his ass off before the infection could spread or some fuck. And they kind of, sort of, need her ‘cause she knows a hell of a lot more about a hell of a lot more shit than any of the rest of them do. And the fuckin’ Codys? Fuck, they’d shove them out the damn door in a fuckin’ heartbeat if not for her. 

********** Bunker: Day 4 **********

Well, it ain’t like he woke up intendin’ on fucking Ian. Not really, he woke up in a fuckin’ spazz panic over what, he ain’t sure. Like maybe Terry found them and he’s standing over them with a hooker and a gun. Or maybe Mandy did actually die out there and his mind has only shut down the last few days to protect him or some fuck. Or maybe he’s back in juvie and this was all just a damn weird ass dream that he just keeps not waking up from. 

And apparently when you sleep with a spazz, then you’re pretty fuckin’ likely to wake up when the spazz does. But you ain’t all spazzed, you’re just certain it’s a false alarm and you kiss your spazz to make ‘em feel better. 

So it wasn’t really intended on, but it ain’t like Ian’s been turned on by Mickey’s ass lately, ‘specially since he’s the one changin’ the butt plugs. Though he’s pretty fucking insanely gentle about it and takes about three times longer than Lou ever does, but ain’t like they ain’t got time. 

Thing is, yeah, when he’s usin’ Ian as a mattress every night, sleepin’ with his heart under his ear and his legs just kind of boxing in Mickey’s hips to keep him nice and fuckin’ close and make sure he doesn’t roll onto the injured cheek since that’s the side he normally sleeps on, turns out when Mickey wakes up with a hard on and Ian’s ass is already right fucking there, then it only makes sense. 

And it only makes further sense when, as much as Mickey denies it, it’d be uncomfortable as fuck to bottom with this fucking crater while it’s healing. 

Yeah, he waited for Ian’s nod before he touched him, waited to make sure he was cool with bottoming, ‘cause it’s still kind of weird to just switch those roles, when Mickey made it pretty fucking clear that he bottoms when they first started fuckin’.

Sure, when Ian’s thigh brushed against his cheek on accident he bit his tongue so fucking hard he tasted blood, and his fist clenched behind Ian’s head under the pillow, but it was a fucking accident and he knows that. And if Ian even realized he did it, he would have gotten all timid puppy and looked at him like he just did the worst thing he could ever do. So he’s glad he didn’t realize it.

And maybe it’s a little obvious that it was just fuckin’ fine for a fuck since the results are stuck between their bellies, but he still kinda, just sorta wants to, “sorry,” apologize or some fuck. 

“Why?” his hand finds it’s way under his head, tilting his gaze to find Mickey where he’s maybe tryin’ to hide in his neck. 

“Uh, wakin’ you up.”

A sigh, “you can wake me up like that any day,” the hand that’s been on Mickey’s shoulder makes it’s way to the back of his head and starts sliding though his dirty hair and he wonders when the fuck he’s going to be able to shower for real instead of just washing face, pits, and undercarriage in the sink. He also wonders when the fuck Ian will reject him ‘cause of his stench.

Fuckever, probably a good thing he don’t mind bottoming. Or, maybe, enjoy? Enjoy bottoming.

Dumb fucker reads his mind, presses his face against Mickey’s hair and mumbles, “that was good.”

So sure, maybe since they ain’t fucked in like a week, maybe more, then maybe that’s the only reason. 

“And I don’t just mean that because I’m seventeen and after a week of nothing, I’d do anything to get off.”

What the fuck? He got mind-reading powers for real now? And they got like five fucking years of this? Fucking fuck this is terrifuckingfying. 

“I’m glad the bunk is bolted to the wall, so we didn’t wake anyone though.”

Yeah. That too, like all this whispering now ain’t gonna wake ‘em, but fuckever. Kid never shuts up, guess maybe they’re used to it by now. Lou ain’t been movin’ much for days. Mandy knows what it’s like to sleep in a noisy house and whatever they got kickin’ on for ventilation is kind of a constant hum that muffles out some shit anyway. The walls are so fucking thick you can’t hear a damn thing from anywhere else inside the place. Dark enough in here. There’s a couple of nightlights scattered throughout the main part, probably for the kid if she gets up at night. But in here, nothing. It’s the biggest difference between here and prison.

“I’d think we were in prison together, but there’s no way in hell I’d ever end up in prison,” he laughs at the end. 

That fucking dopey ass laugh that makes Mickey smile, but he’s gotta put on some attitude when he raises his head to look at him, and his eyebrows dart up to his hairline, “you think you’re better than me West Point?”

“No, Mr fucked-for-life, I don’t think that at all,” fuck, he can see that damn smile and now it’s makin’ him want to fuck him again. Well, that, and the first round only lasted like maybe ninety seconds. Maybe a second round could last like five minutes, and why waste the lube? They ain’t got an endless supply, so they might as well get the full use of every single drop. 

********** Bunker: Day 6 **********

Mickey has seen a bear. A big one. Well, maybe not in comparison to other bears, but it was big. And he’s heard the term mother bear, like a lot, but he never understood it. Not until now. 

So they’ve been mostly keeping separate from the Codys. Cath, J and Lena are around, and they’re cool. But the brothers? They mostly just stay up late and drink, and fight each other and shit, then they sleep most of the day. He ain’t sure how all this is gonna play out when the booze runs dry. He’s not so sure he wants to find out. And maybe if it ain’t nuclear fallout, maybe they can venture out sometime soon. Fuck, he hopes they can get out soon and at least see what the fuck they’re dealing with. But he’s kinda afraid to ask Lou any more shit until she’s done dryin’ out. She ain’t been a bitch, she’s just been quiet as fuck and mostly unmoving. 

Fuck, this is boring. He can’t move yet, not really, not enough to go work out. Nothing more than stupid shit like pull-ups and fuck like that, the kind of shit that makes Ian stare at him like he’s the one who the world revolves around now since it must not revolve around the sun anymore. But he also don’t really want to work up much of a sweat ‘cause he don’t know about this showering shit, and he still don’t want to ask Lou. 

Mandy was playin’ Old Maid with the kid. She asked her after breakfast and Mandy did that thing where she ain’t sure what to say, so her eyes kind of flit around the room for a minute, then meet Mickey’s and Mickey nods at her like she’s a fuckin’ dumbass, so then she agreed to play with the kid and they sat there for a long ass time. But, turns out Mandy remembers the old deck with the grouchy old lady that looks all sour and bitter for bein’ an old maid. ‘Pparently the new Old Maid is a happy old biddy with a cat. And ‘pparently Lena plays the game like you win if you get the old maid, ‘cause like she told Mandy, ‘she’s the happiest person in the deck, isn’t she?’ And Mandy got some weird ass look on her face for a long ass time, the whole time Lena was dealing the next game, and then she smiled, like she was realizin’ for the first time in her life that a chick don’t need a guy to make her happy. 

But now Mandy’s layin’ on the top bunk bouncing a ball at the ceiling and catching it. Mickey’s standin’ beside the bunk tryin’ not to lose his fucking mind. Ian is scratching away in that damn journal and Mickey ain’t sure what he’ll do when the fucker fills up all the pages. Ain’t like he can make him another one. 

“The fuck you writin’?” when he turns to pace across the room. Four steps. It’s four to the empty bunk. 

“It’s a journal Mick,” Mandy reminds him, “not for you.”

“Yeah, but ain’t it boring enough you should just be talkin’, not writin’?” he watches his hand reach out, smooth over the mattress on the top bunk. Why? No fuckin’ clue. Maybe there’s something inside the mattress. 

When he turns, Ian’s eyes are on his. Something he knows, but something they haven’t talked about, and something they’re maybe not willing to talk about at all, not just in front of other people. His family. He’s thinking about his family. And he shrugs, and his eyes drop, and he whispers, “thought I’d write the things I remember about them, you know, just to, I guess, not forget them.”

Fuck. The fuck’s he s’posed to say to that? Ain’t like he’s the only one who lost someone, a few someones, or like all the someones. His eyes scan over Lou’s form, wondering who she had. Other than her senile dad and some people down the road who owned the local store. Fuck, probably just another thing she had when she was a pilot, that whole military camaraderie thing, that she lost when she lost the military. 

And yeah, Ian chose Mickey over his siblings. Or he chose to not die in the basement. Or he chose to not have to fuck V to help repopulate the world. Or fuckever he chose, but it’s still Mickey and fuck. Fucker. He takes the four steps over again and ducks into the bunk. Making a grab for the pen with one hand and the journal with the other. So it ain’t gonna turn into a real battle, ‘cause Ian’s pretty damn sure of where the crater is, but it’s still gonna turn into a small wrestling match. And it’s gonna end with Ian’s arms pinned beside his head, and his damn eyes twinkling and that damn smile rising and that damn magnetic pull to his lips that Mickey sure in the fuck ain’t gonna try to deny. It won’t go far, not right now, with Mandy up there whistling and tossing her damn bouncy ball. With Lou all passed out, or half-dead, or fuckever is happening over there. 

When he pulls away from Ian’s lips and leans up on his elbows, the fucker is grinning at him and he considers dipping in again, but there’s a weird feeling starting to filter into the room. He hears the door and jumps nearly out of the bunk, instead, just far enough to sit on the edge of the mattress and make sure whatever is coming inside is something that Mickey stays between it and Ian. 

But ‘pparently he don’t have to. ‘Cause Lou’s already on her feet and standing at the doorway with her hand on it to keep it from opening any further and her boot lodged firmly under the bottom edge. 

“We need to talk,” yeah, no shit they’d all get a creepy feeling. Or maybe just Mickey got a creepy feeling and Lou fed off his creepy feeling or something. ‘Cause Mandy’s still bouncing her ball and Ian’s just layin’ there with that look he has like he knows his spazz is setting off another false alarm. It’s Pope. Fuckin’ creep.

“About what?” she sure in the fuck ain’t about to let him through the door. 

“A lot of things.”

“Like what?” her voice is a special kind of icy he’s never heard before.

“Like how we want to ration supplies.”

“We will do that. At some point. And next time you need to speak to me. You knock.”

“This is about all of you.”

“Doesn’t matter. You speak to me. Not them.”

Silence. He can’t see Pope, but he can see Lou. And she looks pretty fucking big for a kind of small woman who hasn’t eaten anything in like five days. Not that she’s small like dainty. She’s pretty tall for a chick and she’s got those stringy country chick muscles that Mickey never actually saw before he saw her, but that’s what they are. 

But either way, she’s giving him a stare-down and Mickey’s certain the crazy guy is about to back down. She reminds him, of the whole knocking thing, by knocking on the door herself before she closes it. She doesn’t move right away, just stands there, hands on the door like she’s waiting to hear him walking away. 

Mandy’s ball has stopped. Ian’s eyes land on Mickey’s face when he turns to look at him, but he don’t say anything. Mickey finds himself wondering what would happen if Pope got between Lou and them, “we your cubs?”

Her eyes land on his for the first time in fuckever many days and they’re all red-rimmed and narrowed fiercely, but there’s like a half-amused smile that just barely surfaces before she stifles it and tells them, “none of you are ever alone with that guy. Hear me?”

First it’s Mandy that her eyes linger on, waiting for a, “yes. He fucking creeps me out.”

“He doesn’t fucking sleep,” and there’s something else, but she stops. Does she think he’s a giant homophobe? Is that what this is about?

He opens his mouth, but her eyes land on his and his mouth shuts. Instead he nods. They shift to Ian and he agrees, “yes ma’am.”

“Fuck, that was weak,” Mickey elbows him, “that how you’d actually respond to an officer if you miraculously made it into West Point firecrotch?”

But he ain’t payin’ any attention, his eyes are on Lou while she’s making her way back to her bunk, and he’s wonderin’, “do you think that he’s a fag-basher or something?”

“No,” Mandy snorts from above them, “Deran’s queer.”

“Huh? He don’t,” Mickey looks at Ian for confirmation but all Ian is doing is lookin’ all deep in thought, “look queer.”

“How exactly do queers look Mick?” 

Oh now he wants in on this conversation? Fuck him. Mickey just raises his brows in response, but he ain’t really got a good answer for that and Ian knows that so he just has that stupid smug look and now Mickey’s gotta get up and walk across the room again, “Lou? Why you want us to stay away from him?” his hand rises to smooth over the mattress. Again. 

“‘Cause he’s the neighborhood kid who used to bury cats in the yard with just their heads stickin’ out and he’d mow ‘em over.”

“That true?”

“About him? I don’t fuckin’ know. What does the psycho kid do when they grow up in the city? Drown cats? Feed rat poison to homeless people?” she sighs when she gets to her bunk, but she don’t lay down. She sits. Head in her hands, “just stay out of his way. The others seem not so bad. As long as you don’t step on their toes, just, no point in gettin’ all buddied up with ‘em either. But,” she slides her hands through her hair, looking towards them again, “use the buddy system for now. Until I figure out what’s actually the deal with that guy. And you,” blue eyes landing squarely on Mickey’s face, “need to take a fucking shower. Now. You fucking stink.”

“I stink?! You stink, what the fuck? I’ve been at least fuckin’ scrubbin’ my junk, you’ve been marinating over there.”

“Yeah, well, buddy. Looks like stall number one is mine and stall number two is yours. And while we’re at it, I’m gonna need to take a look at the Grand Canyon.”

********** Bunker: Day 17 **********

Uh, yeah, he changed up their sleeping positions. ‘Cause if he ain’t the only one gettin’ creep vibes from Pope, and if Pope opens doors without knocking and if Pope don’t sleep at night, then sure in the fuck Mickey’s gonna be the one on the outside of the mattress. Boxing Ian between his ass and the wall. Fuckever it’s where the ginger dope belongs anyway.

********** Bunker: Day 35 **********

Mickey has every freckle and hair follicle and crease of Ian’s left hand memorized.

********** Bunker: Day 40 **********

“Now we’re fuckin’ learnin’ something,” she’s all snark and sass now that she’s sober. She’s decided she’s going to teach them all self-defense. Armed and unarmed. Well, not all of them. Southsiders, Cath, Lena, and J. Didn’t take long for J to gravitate towards this bunch. Makes sense and all since he’s their age. And he don’t seem like he’s sniffin’ Mandy’s skirts either, which makes Mickey a little more willing to let him gravitate towards them. 

Mandy reaches out a hand, pulling Lou up from the middle of the floor in the gym. Mandy’s a quick learn. No fuckin’ shit. ‘Course she is. She’s been gettin’ beat on in some form or other since she was born. Of course she’d take self-defense seriously.

ROTC showed Ian some shit apparently, ‘cause he ain't a bad grappling partner according to Lou. J’s a quick study. Cath is too timid. And Lena is young enough yet that she’s completely moldable. 

And Mickey? Fuck. He just gotta remember they ain’t actually fightin’. He’s never been scared of much when it comes to a beatdown. Giving or getting. And he knows mama bear ain’t gonna hurt him, but he’s fucking terrified that he’ll forget about her fake leg and take her out in a really fucking unsportsmanlike manor. Not that he’s given fuckall about sportsmanship before, but it also ain’t like he’s ever had any kind of official training type shit. 

********** Day 53 **********

Mickey has every single sleep breathing pattern of Ian’s memorized.

********** Day 62 **********

It ain’t much different than bein’ behind bars, “‘Cept the food is better.”

“And the haircuts are better,” Pope speaks. And it’s true, but it’s still creepy. Guess Cath ain’t bad with a pair of clippers.

********** Day 79 **********

Think the Codys finished off their alcohol stash. Maybe they’ll start brewin’ their own. Maybe not. But it’s Deran who starts hangin’ out first. And he’s definitely queer. And he’s got nothing but top vibes. And his eyes better not look at Ian’s ass for any fuckin’ longer or he ain’t gonna live to see life outside the bunker. Meeting Mickey’s glare when he feels it on him. Shit, he’s got Lou’s eyes. 

There’s kind of a weird silent exchange happening here. So guy ain’t dumb. He’s too old for Ian, he knows that. That, and Ian throws his own top vibes. But Deran ain’t lookin’ at Mickey like he’s a buffet bar either, or not when Mickey’s seein’ it anyway. But either way, by the time the exchange ends, he’s certain he ain’t gonna have to whip his dick out and piss on Ian to mark his territory. Look all you fuckin’ want man but that ass is mine, is exactly what Mickey’s eyebrows are conveying anyway. And Deran gets it, a kind of smile happens and a half nod before he looks away.

******** Day 97 **********

Mickey has every single muscle line in Ian’s abdomen memorized.

******** Day 100 ********

“Happy hundredth,” his whisper is right against Mickey’s ear. And Mickey wants to yank his watch off his wrist and stomp it with his bare heel until his heal is full of broken glass from the face of his watch. ‘Cause the only reason they know it’s a hundred is that fucking watch. And fucking time don’t matter down here. It’s all the fucking same. Same bed, same food, same people, same activities. Same fucking beep, beep, right under the fucking pillow right under Mickey’s fucking head. 

And his lips meet the back of Mickey’s neck and, so, fuck, fine, that part of the morning routine ain’t the worst part.

And he climbs out over Mickey and he pulls on a pair of gym shorts and he stretches in the middle of the room. And that part ain’t the worst part either. 

And Lou’s at the door when he reaches for the handle, ‘cause she still ain’t about to let any of them go anywhere alone and if gingers and former alcoholics are the only happy people in the mornin’ then they can go have their morning cardio while the rest of the fucking world keeps sleeping, ‘cause there ain’t much else to do but work-out, eat, BS, work-out, sometimes fuck. But the fucking in the dark and being quiet and not being able to see Ian’s face is gettin’ old. Not that he’d admit that’s the problem, that he can’t see Ian’s face when he balls deep in Mickey’s ass and yeah, eventually he did get over the crater. Not that it’s easy to look at now either, but at least when Ian’s running his hand over Mickey’s asscheek he don’t avoid it. Fuck, maybe the dark is a good thing. And the whole bein’ quiet so they don’t wake anyone else up. That shit’s overrated. Not that either of them was a talker before, but even stifling the grunts and burying his face in Ian’s shoulder when he gets to the point of ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’ being the only word his mouth is capable of on repeat at the end; shit’s getting old. He wants to fuck him in broad fucking daylight. And take his sweet fucking time. Sure, sometimes when he closes his eyes, it’s the beach in the morning or the handcuffs or even the 69 in the woods. Where there was daylight, natural light making Ian look like he fucking glows. This fucking darkness business, whoever thinks being blind heightens your other senses is a fucking moron. It don’t. It just makes you do things like accidentally elbow or knee or flail an open palm into your lover when you can’t see where the fuck they are and you’re trying like hell to stifle noise so your body just kind of freaks out in other ways and you end up popping him in the jaw ‘cause you don’t realize he’s leanin’ forward to kiss your shoulder at the same time you’re doing whatever spastic movement you’re doing with your hand. 

Fuck.

********** Day 124 **********

Mickey’s eyes dart open, not that it matters, it’s fucking dark in here. But he ain’t the only one heard it. The light from Lou’s book light flips on. 

It happens again. And Mickey’s on his feet. He knows Ian is just fine. His hand finds Mandy’s shoulder and hers rises to swat him. She’s fine. 

Lou’s got her leg on and she’s walking out, he’s following. 

And it’s happening again. 

And they ain’t the only ones heard it. Pope is out in hallway already. Of fucking course he is. Every single time Mickey has got up to piss in the middle of the night, the guy is lurking around somewhere. 

But Craig’s out here too.

And now it’s happening again. And now a wild-haired Cath is exiting their bunk room with J behind her. 

“We all in here?” Lou wonders.

“Yeah, I’ve got six,” J responds.

“I’ve got four. Shit,” it sounds again, “gotta be by the vents.”

“Could it be an animal?”

“No, that’s fucking human, fuck,” her hands rise to run through her hair, head tilting back to watch the ceiling for a moment, deep breath, and focus on Pope, “no gunshots unless we have to,” flitting to Craig, “I want you two. This has gotta be quiet and it’s gotta be quick. Don’t matter what it is, who it is, what condition they’re in. We gotta shut ‘em up before any attention is drawn this way. Got it?”

It happens again. And it’s making the hair on the back of Mickey’s neck stand up. Whatever the fuck it is, it’s in pain. Fucking lot of pain. He don’t want to go, but he wants to go, he wants to get the fuck out of here for a fuckin’ minute or two. Even if he’s suited up and standing guard at the door and he don’t get to see the outside world yet. 

However the fuck they decided this shit, they figured whatever the fuck is blowing around out there, or still exploding or landing from space, well they figured a year minimum of bein’ down here before it was okay to venture out. Unless something happened between now and then. Apparently this is the something. 

“Wait,” his hand falls on her arm when she’s situating her gas mask, “can I…”

“No. Maybe next time,” she nods at him and the last thing she grabs on her way out the door is an ax thing. ‘Pparently it’s called an axeroon, one end is an ax, the other is a pick for hookin’ logs when you gotta move firewood or some fuck. According to Lou. 

Wait, is she plannin’ on killin’ with that thing? What the fuck? Fuck, what? She said no gunshots unless necessary, they all got knives. But, fuck. Fuck.

He blinks and the eyeball goo rises and he ain’t a pussy but he’s glad she said no. 

—————

“Holy shit,” Craig’s peelin’ off his gear, “she just brained a zombie.”

“That wasn’t a zombie,” Pope narrows his eyes at him.

“Whatever it was, it was,” he’s shaking his head with a weird smile on his face, lookin’ at Lou with all kinds of reverence. But she ain’t givin’ an inch, not makin’ eye contact, not talkin’, just pealing off her gear and the axeroon is leanin’ against the doorframe splattered in blood and brain matter. Fuck, that’s gross. But the screamin’ stopped. Craig clears his throat, “it was necessary,” he finishes. 

Silence fills the room until Cath wonders, “what’s it look like up there?”

“Dark, ashy, can’t really tell a hell of a lot through the masks,” he shrugs, “maybe go up in daylight sometime?” his eyes land on Lou but she’s still not budgin’. 

She washes her hands, jerks her head at Mickey and waits until he starts movin’ towards the bunk room before she falls in line behind him. ‘Pparently she ain’t gonna talk about this shit just yet. And ‘pparently she still ain’t lettin’ any of her cubs out of her sight. 

********** Day 137 **********

Lou’s been pretty fuckin’ quiet about the events of the zombie braining. They’ve moved on from hand-to-hand, now they’re workin’ with weapons. 

The Codys are creepin’ closer and closer into their atmosphere. But they ain’t bad. They add some new voices to the conversations at least. Fuck, it’s boring as fuck down here. 

********** Day 145 **********

Mickey has every single hue of Ian’s eyes memorized.

********** Day 159 **********

Mandy’s been spendin’ an awful lot of time with J. But never alone. There’s always someone around. And holy fuck, why the fuck didn’t he think of this before? Mandy’s hangin’ out with J, playin’ a board game with Lena. Lou’s buddy system is still in place so she ain’t gonna leave the room if Mickey and Ian do. 

He has to stand a little on his toes, not all the way, not enough to be considered his tippy toes, but his toes to get to Ian’s ear. Fucker, “fuck me.”

“K,” he shrugs and it only takes like a fuckin’ spit second before they’re in the bunk, stark fuckin’ naked with a light on and a sheet tucked into the top bunk to drape over theirs just in case Lou and Mandy come in. Door don’t lock. 

Ian flips him pretty damn quick, but he don’t got face first, not yet. His lips land on the crater and Mickey kind of flinches away at first. Not ‘cause it still hurts. Just ‘cause it’s fuckin’ hideous and he don’t want Ian that close to it.

“Don’t do that,” he whispers, his breath against the lumpy bumpy dipped divoted flesh, “it’s beautiful.”

Fuck him and his ESP bullshit.

“It’s beautiful,” he repeats, laying his lips against it, “I love it. Because you survived it. And you’re still here with me.”

********** Day 200 **********

“Happy two-hundredth,” breath against his skin.

“Fuck two hundred.”

“I know,” dopey smile and Mickey don’t have to open his eyes to see it.

********** Day 234 **********

“It’s pretty fucked up there,” Craig’s takin’ off his gear in the hallway between doors, “makes you wonder what’s going into our drinking water supply.”

********** Day 237 **********

Mickey has every freckle on Ian’s nose memorized.

********** Day 256 **********

Oh shit. Pope got close to a cub when mama bear ain’t around. And Pope looks like he’s in the mood for a fight. And Mickey sure ain’t about to let that happen. 

Ian was mindin’ his own business, not even his own, he was gettin’ some shit out to make lunch for the kid ‘cause the kid said she was hungry. J, Mandy, Ian and Mickey were all sittin’ cross-legged on the floor in the living room playing a fucking game of fucking UNO with the kid. Kid said she was hungry. So Ian got up. Started lookin’ for somethin’ to eat. 

“Where’s Lou?” his eyes dart around the room, for some reason when she talks, Pope listens. But Mickey’s certain that no one else in their little group matters worth a shit to him. He’s waitin’ to wake up with that creep standing over him with a knife to his throat. Maybe that’s why he ain’t been sleepin’ so well lately. 

Mandy shrugs when Mickey’s eyes land on her. He gets to his feet when he sees Pope making advances towards Ian. Ian’s got his back to him, getting something out of the cupboard. And suddenly Mickey feels like he’s gotta pick up his pace a little. Pope’s mouth opens, “is that within the rationing schedule?”

Ian is so lost in Ian-land that he hasn’t even realized Pope is talking to him. His ears heard a kid was hungry so his mind went to ‘a kid is hungry, kid will eat, and that is all that matters’. 

And when someone ignores Pope, he don’t respond to it so well. His fists are already clenched at his side and the vein in his neck is popping out. And he’s not much taller than Mickey, sounds like he’s been fightin’ whoever his mommy commands him to fight since he was eight, but Mickey ain’t never been afraid of anyone. Not really. And he ain’t never been afraid of pain. So when Pope takes another step towards Ian and clears his throat, Mickey’s fist meets his ribs. 

Don’t take long for a scuffle, but it also don’t take long for Craig, Deran, Ian, and Mandy to be pullin’ them apart. There are too many voices asking too many questions and making too many demands for Mickey to pick out a single one other than, “if you’re gonna fucking fight then do it in the gym and do it by the rules.”

There she is. Where the fuck was she a minute ago? Mickey’s blood is boiling, who the fuck is this crazy fucker to think it’s okay to clench his fists over food for a fuckin’ kid bein’ made by a fuckin’ teenager? So yeah, Mickey’s gonna fight it out. He beats this guy to a fuckin’ pulp maybe he’ll think twice about gettin’ all pissy over something that fuckin’ stupid again. And he’ll step the fuck back from the Southside. 

Mickey gets beat to a fuckin’ pulp? Well, maybe they get kicked out of the bunker. Fuckever. He don’t have to fuckin’ care, ‘cause he ain’t gonna get beat. 

—————

Jesus fucking Christ this guy hits like his fists are made of fuckin’ concrete. There’s blood in Mickey’s mouth and he can hear his own breath coming out in ragged gasps and his head is rushing. But now he’s gotta fuckin’ win. A lot of talkin’ goin’ out by the spectators. Only people ain’t crammed in here are Cath and Lena. Lou told him before the squared off he’d have to knock him out. Psychos don’t go down easy. And she’s fuckin’ right. He’s startin’ to think of Terry, how many times the guy would land punches in Mickey’s gut while Mickey just waited for him to gas out, and yeah the guy was a piece of shit but a psycho? Not really. Not like this. Not this caliber of psycho. 

Fuck. His vision is getting blurry and jumping. His heart is lodged in his throat and every single hit the guy lands reverberates through his body. 

He knew this was comin’, at some point. All this testosterone bouncin’ around down here. He didn’t think he’d be boxing the psycho, maybe Deran if he looked at Ian’s ass one more time. Or maybe J if he tried to make a move on Mandy. Though J’s a lot nicer than any other loser Mandy has ever been with, he’d definitely never hit her or make her feel shit about herself. 

Either fuckin’ way. Ian’s startin’ to look concerned. He can feel blood leaking out of a gash on his brow, and he’s wonderin’ if there’s gonna be any of his scar worshipping in a few weeks when this shit heals. Fucker. There’s definitely something bleeding down his side too. Yeah, fuck, left eye is gonna be swollen shut now. 

Fuck. Another hit like that, he’s gonna be out. Fuck. He dodges Pope’s left and ducks his right. When Mickey comes up with an uppercut, and his last tiny fucking drop of energy, it connects with Pope’s jaw. Sending his head snapping back and he goes down like a ton of fuckin’ bricks. Fuck. 

Mickey staggers back, away from the guy in case he gets up and wants more. Mickey’s done. Mama bear is between them immediately, her hands out to keep the crowd back. Crowd is mostly stunned and the Cody brothers look like they ain’t sure what to think of any of this. But they don’t look like they’re ready to step up for the next round either. Fuck, maybe the psycho ain’t ever been knocked out before.

“Alright, match is Mick’s,” she announces, “now we got that out of our system?” she eyes the crowd, one face at a time, gauging the reactions.

Craig and Deran are lookin’ at each other. Or at least that's what Mickey thinks he’s seein’ through all the fog in his eyes, “I’ve never seen him knocked out before,” Craig announces.

Deran shrugs, leans back against the wall like he ain’t effected by any of this. But his eyes are lingering on Mickey’s face now.   
Lou is bent over Pope, one hand on his chin, her other hand on Mickey’s knee to make sure he don’t leave the mats until the handshakes are done. He ain’t goin’ anywhere, but to the floor. On his butt. Right now. 

That’s gotta be the longest amount of time he’s ever spent just beatin’ on someone and gettin’ beat on in any kind of continuous manner. Guess it’s a good thing they ain’t got much to do but work-out, otherwise he’d have been out long before he got the opening for the KO. 

—————

“This is done,” Lou’s got her hand over top of their handshake, like she ain’t about to let them go until they both agree, “we ain’t fightin’ each other when we got so much shit outside of this bunker to worry about. Got it? One time only fight. No more. You wanna grapple, do it. You want to kill someone, go up top. You wanna punch out some testosterone, hit the bag. From here on out, we’re the only family we got and we all gotta have each other’s back when it’s safe to go up top, got it?”

“Got it,” Mickey agrees, watching Pope eyeing him with blur across his browns but maybe some respect in there too.

“Yeah,” he finally responds, his hand clamps down in a firm shake and Lou releases her grasp, “you broke my tooth,” and it ain’t like a creepy warning that he’ll get him back, it’s like a ‘good for you’ sort of thing.

“You broke a few of my ribs.”

“You knocked me out.”

“Yeah, well, pretty sure this is a fracture,” he points at his face.

“Orbital fracture,” Lou provides, “alright boys, get cleaned up.”

—————

“Do you realize how unnecessary that was?” Ian’s brow is all dipped in when he holds the ice up to Mickey’s face, “I could have talked to him instead.”

Mickey scoffs, but it’s Lou that tells them, “doesn’t hurt to show some dominance to an animal like him. Proved it in front of his brothers too. Now they know. And now you’ve earned some respect. Respect in a language they can understand.”

—————

“Still,” Ian whispers against the back of his head when he gets him in something resembling a comfortable hold for the night, “that was really fucking stupid.”

He ain’t got the energy to argue. He ain’t got the energy to say anyfuckingthing, eyes closing, well, one eye closing, other one glued shut by a bruise.

“I love you.”

Something comes out of his mouth. It sure in the fuck ain’t, ‘I love you too’, but it’s fuckin’ close enough.

********** Day 260 **********

Well he ain’t pissin’ blood anymore. And yeah, Lou was right, it did earn some respect. And now that he broke some ice, Pope don’t seem so creepy anymore, not really, like he figured out Mickey can speak his language and he can hold his own and not hold a grudge when it’s all over, so he can chill a little. He still don’t know shit about these guys, their lives before this, but he can tell that somewhere along the way someone fucked them all up in their own special way. Not a hell of a lot unlike Terry’s special way of fucking up his kids.

******** Day 261 **********

Ian tilts his head back in the spray of the shower, being extra gentle even though he don’t really need to be anymore. But it ain’t like Mickey’s going to turn down having Ian wash him off. He’ll soak up that attention as long as he can get away with it.

Even though something weird as fuck happens, and he ain’t sure why and he ain’t even sure how, but when Ian’s busy sliding Mickey’s hair through his fingers to get the soap out, a whole fuckin’ onslaught of shit just boils up to the surface and comes out as tears. And it takes Ian a minute to realize it. And he ain’t sure where it’s comin’ from either. Maybe the whole fuckin’ thing from the moment they walked out of the Southside until now, maybe all of it, like a fuckin’ volcano spewing out. Tears and snot at the same time, a few gasps and Ian’s big hands are guiding Mickey’s head into his shoulder. That soft muscle between the base of his neck and the knob of his shoulder. 

And he ain’t sayin’ a fuckin’ word. Just holdin’ him. Swaying a little in the spray of the water. 

********** Day 279 **********

“Fuck, I don’t know,” she’s leaned back in a kitchen chair, fucking with her ball cap, “thought by now I’d at least have a guess as to what the fuck happened up there. Fuck. I don’t know. I ain’t making the decision. Not for all your lives. But I’ll make a recommendation. Stay down here ’til the air clears a little more.”

********** Day 290 **********

Mickey has every single strand of hair on Ian’s head memorized.

********** Day 300 **********

“Happy three-hundredth,” lips on the knobs of his spine.

********** Day 325 **********

“Fuck, Ian,” his voice chokes off as his fingers grasp Ian’s hair, “fuck.”

“I know,” his damn dopey smile appears when he lifts his head out of Mickey’s neck. And disappears again when he dives back into Mickey’s lips. Crashing with all the passion in his body and all the hormone driven nonsense in his teenage brain.

********** Day 347 **********

The hand holding hasn’t gone unnoticed. But it doesn’t piss Mickey off. J just ain’t that bad of a kid. His childhood wasn’t much different than their own. Junkie mom, apartment full of needles and doped out strangers. 

At least they ain’t sharin’ a bed yet.

********** Day 350 **********

Mickey has the freckles on Ian’s back memorized.

********** Day 365 **********

“Happy first year underground,” the first one is a whisper into his ear. 

The second one is louder and it happens about twenty minutes later, when the orgasms are still pretty fresh but the alarm starts going off and he knows they ain’t the only two awake in the room anymore. 

“Fuck the first year,” Mandy grumbles from above them.

Lou’s only response is a sigh, and the sound of her leg being pulled on for the day. 

Ian’s lips meet Mickey’s spine. And he crawls over him. To start another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder : Writer's opinions are not voiced by the characters.
> 
> I'm debating - do I switch narrators? Or do I let Mickey do all the time underground? Hmm...
> 
> Still relying on comments to keep this fic going - always glad to have company, but especially at the end of the world :)
> 
> We'll let them age up a little before we throw them into post-apocalyptic hell.


	30. Bunker: Year Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bet you didn't see this perspective coming...

Bunker: Year Two

 

********** Bunker: Day 3 **********

Lena likes laying on Uncle Craig the best. He’s the biggest and the softest. And he snores sometimes. But he always says he wasn’t asleep. 

She doesn’t know how you can snore when you’re wide awake.

But today he is wide awake. She knows because he keeps ruffling her hair. 

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” she whispers into his chest when it rises with a deep breath. He makes the best breathing noises too.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he whispers back.

“I can’t sleep until you do. So we can dream together.”

“You sleep first, and I’ll be right behind you.”

“Okay.”

********** Bunker: Day 5 **********

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he sighs and it moves the hair on the top of her head.

She lifts her face, digs her chin into his bones until he winces. Uncle Craig has a scar on his chest, it was from a bullet. 

“Hey, what was that for?”

“You aren’t telling me something.”

“I don’t tell you everything.”

“You do too!”

His eyes are blue. And his face hair tickles when he rubs his chin on her face. He looks at her for a long time. Like forever before he sighs, “do you know what a crush is?”

She wraps her arms around him as tight as she can and squeezes, “you need to be crushed?”

He laughs. She loves when Uncle Craig laughs. Then he tickles her armpits until she squirms and he sighs again, “if a boy has a crush on a girl it means they like the girl. Like the way your daddy liked your mommy.”

“Oh,” she makes a face and scrunches up her nose when she remembers all the times Daddy would kiss Mommy right in front of her.

“It’s not that bad once you get bigger.”

“No, it will always be that bad.”

He smiles again, and it seems like he’s not going to keep talking so she wonders, “do you have a crush?”

His eyes are twinkly but the smile changes, “I think I do.”

“Uh oh.”

“Yeah,” his hand smoothes through her hair and his heart does a weird thump she’s never heard before.

“Hmm,” she sighs and it turns into a yawn.

“I’ll be right behind you,” she hears him promise when she closes her eyes.

********** Bunker: Day 15 **********

They keep putting on these weird suits and going outside. They look like aliens. When they come back in they’re dirty. And then they talk all quiet for awhile before it gets loud. 

Mommy never lets Lena stay out there when they’re talking.

“Uncle Craig?” she wonders later when he’s changing his clothes in the bedroom.

“Lena,” he pulls his pants up really fast, “you’re supposed to knock,” he flips his damp hair out of his face and doesn’t look at her right away.

“Sorry,” her hands grab each other in front of her and she watches the floor until she hears him pull his shirt on and sigh.

“That’s okay,” and now he’s sitting on the edge of his bed. He sleeps on the bottom bunk and he’s too tall for it. His legs hang off the side or they poke through the ladder. Sometimes when he sits up, he forgets he’s on a bunk and he hits his head, “come on.”

She bounces across the room, climbing up on his knee. First the horsey walks, then the horsey trots, then when the horsey gallops she laughs and the sound it makes when Uncle Craig’s knee his galloping makes him laugh. 

When he stops, she wonders, “what was the world like before it ended?”

He gets this weird look now, one she’s never seen before and he just says, “beautiful.”

********** Bunker: Day 24 **********

“It’s Uncle Deran’s sister.”

“What is?” he tucks his hand behind his head to he can look at her.

“That you want to crush,” to make her point, she wraps her arms around him tight and squeezes as hard as she can.

He crushes her back, but not really. If he really wanted to crush her, he could, “how do you know that?”

“The way you looked at her earlier. When she looked at you.”

“She doesn’t look at me often.”

“She doesn’t,” she agrees.

“It’s like I don’t even exist unless she needs me to go up top with her.”

“Mmm hmm,” she doesn’t remember much from before the world ended. But she remembers always having to fight with older girls for Uncle Craig’s attention.

“Well, what do I do about it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to crush anybody.”

He laughs and it rumbles in his chest.

“But Daddy used to bring Mommy flowers sometimes.”

********** Bunker: Day 29 **********

“Lena… psst… you awake?”

It’s Uncle Craig’s face in the dark peering over the edge of her bunk, “I look awake, don’t I?”

She sees his teeth in the darkness when he smiles, pulling her off the bed into his arms. She wraps around his neck and lets him carry her out to the living room. Where they’ve been sneaking at night to make flowers for Lou. They make them mostly out of trash. Food wrappers and cans and things that they can’t use for anything else. But some of them are pretty neat. Then they leave them outside the door of Lou’s bunk room. With a note. 

********** Bunker: Day 32 **********

The door swings open and a flashlight lights up the hallway. Uncle Craig takes a quick step back, putting his hands up. The door shuts but not until after Lou walks out. Lena asked her a long time ago if she was a pirate. If she has a peg leg from sailing the high seas. She nodded, ‘aye matey’ and tweaked her nose. But Lena’s not so sure that’s true.

“Busted,” Uncle Craig sighs.

Lou’s flashlight beam is on Lena’s hands that are grasping the tin can full of wrapper flowers. This is the best batch yet. When the flashlight blinks off all that’s left is nightlight. 

Lena can’t really blame Uncle Craig for wanting to crush Lou. Lou could crush him right back. And Lena has never known a girl who could maybe even kind of crush someone as big as Uncle Craig. It never works when Lena tries it, she can’t get her arms around his chest and arms at the same time to get a good crushing grip on him.

There’s a weird bit of movement over the silence and Lena doesn’t have to look up to know they’re kissing. She remembers what that sounds like. She rolls her eyes to herself and waits. It doesn’t take long. She’s glad for that.

Then the door is opening and closing again and Uncle Craig is leaning against the wall when she looks at him. In the dimness he’s got another weird expression on his face that she’s never seen before. 

She clears her throat and he blinks, reaching down to tousle her hair and take her hand.

“Did you crush her?” she wonders in a whisper.

“She crushed me,” he responds with a little song in his voice.

********** Day 56 **********

Well, Uncle Craig isn’t the only one with a crush. Cousin J smiles at Mandy all the time. And when he thinks no one is looking, the smile is different. And she smiles back. All the time. Lena likes Mandy’s smile. 

She also notices them holding hands a lot. And sometimes they disappear together in the middle of the day. Kind of like Ian and Mickey do. But they’ve been crushing each other since before Lena met them, so she’s used to the smiles they only smile at each other. And that day Mickey pushed Uncle Pope for getting too far into Ian’s personal space. 

Uncle Pope does that sometimes. Mommy acts different around him. But Lena’s not afraid of him. She knows he would never ever hurt her. And he doesn’t like to hurt people, Mommy said that Grandma Smurf taught Uncle Pope to hurt people but he doesn’t like doing it. So they have to teach him not to hurt people. Sometimes it doesn’t work, and he still likes to start fights with Uncle Craig or Uncle Deran. But Mommy says they’re used to it, that’s one of the things brothers do sometimes. And it wasn’t like the fight with Mickey, where they both ended up with weird looking faces for a few days and a lot of grunts and groans every time they moved. When it’s the uncles, it’s mostly just pushing and shoving and saying mean things. But they don’t bleed.

Sometimes they forget Lena is around and they start talking about things that Lena probably shouldn’t hear. But Mommy keeps telling her that this underground house is just a chapter of their lives. Like that book called Peter Pan that Mandy is always reading to her, it has chapters. Lena’s first chapter was in Oceanside with Daddy and Mommy and Grandma Smurf. Her second chapter is here with four new cousins. Maybe three cousins and an aunt. Would Lou be an aunt if Uncle Craig crushes her? His hand spends a lot of time on her hip lately. 

********** Day 69 **********

“Day 69 firecrotch,” Mickey has cool eyebrows. 

Mandy swats him and mumbles something at him about not saying that shit in front of the kid.

Lena can’t figure out why he thinks Ian’s crotch is on fire. That would hurt. And they’d be able to see it. Or he would stink. He would smell like Mickey did for the first few weeks they were here.

******** Day 87 **********

“What does the new world look like?”

His shrug moves her body and she turns her head to get her ear right over his heart. She likes the way his heart sounds the best, “it’s mostly dark. A lot of sand and ash. Can’t see the sun. It’s pretty cold.”

“Where are all the other people?”

His heart makes a weird thump and he doesn’t say anything for awhile. Then, “you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

********** Day 102 **********

“Just don’t be a dick, alright?” Uncle Deran sounds upset.

“I’m not, I swear,” Uncle Craig sounds that weird way he sounds when he talks about Lou.

Lena is playing hide and seek with Ian and Mandy, they haven’t found her yet. And the uncles came in here before she could warn them she was here, they just started arguing. 

“She’s not even your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Exactly. Any chick will do.”

“That’s not,” but he stops for a minute, “that used to be true.”

Uncle Deran makes a noise, it’s like a snort. But not a pig snort. Like a horse snort.

“And no, it’s not just because she’s my only option.”

“But she is your only option.”

“Not true.”

“You’d make a move on Cath?”

A move on her? What’s that mean? Is Uncle Craig moving out?

“Sure. Maybe would have after she mourned Baz for awhile. But not when…”

“And Mandy?”

“I mean she’s kind of young, but that never stopped me before. Neither did a relationship status,” he sounds like he’s smiling.

Uncle Deran’s feet walk past where Lena is hiding under the bed, “Jesus, I want a joint.”

“No luck on the growing?”

“Do I look like I’m harvesting?”

“No need to get snappy. I told you, you should have asked Adrian to come along.”

“Adrian’s not…”

“Don't play bro. You’re gay and no one here gives a shit. You’re just jealous ‘cause you realized you’d be in the bunker with two other gay kids and you thought maybe there was a chance you’d get laid at some point. But now that you know there’s no chance in hell for that to happen, you gotta take it out on me for trying to get some?”

Silence for a minute, Uncle Deran’s feet turn, his heels are right in front of her face and the mattress sags over top of her. He sighs, “everyone know?”

“What? That I’m trying to get your sister to…”

“No. That I’m gay.”

Uncle Craig’s feet appear, his heels line up next to Uncle Deran’s and the mattress dips even lower, “no one gives a shit bro. You’re the only one who thinks that being gay is a bad thing.”

“Being gay is…”

“You. You think that by you being gay, you’re like, lesser. Or something.”

He’s does that snort thing again and Uncle Craig shifts his weight. This mattress is going to land on her and squish her to death. She should have said something. But now it feels weird. What’s gay? And why do you have to get laid? Don’t you just lay down when you want to? Why would someone have to do it for you?

She hears something that’s probably Uncle Craig’s hand landing on Uncle Deran’s knee, and Uncle Deran sighs, “Smurf.”

“I know. I get it. She spent our entire lives until last year in our heads. We won’t just be able to erase her over night. But you just gotta start listening to, like, yourself or something.”

Uncle Deran is really good at making horse snorts. His feet shuffle a little further away from Uncle Craig’s, “you gonna start doing self-help sessions when we get out of here?”

“Maybe. Can I call it dating, if we can’t go on dates?”

“What?”

“Lou. Can I say I’m dating her if we’re stuck down here?”

Now his feet move all the way away and start walking out the door, “get creative.”

—————

“What’s gay?” 

Mandy’s thumb zings through the air towards Mickey and Ian, “they are.”

Ian rolls his eyes and Mickey’s cool brows rise into something that Lena never wants to be the target of. J’s cheeks turn pink and he takes a deep breath, “there are a couple different meanings of the word. It can be used in place of happy. Or…”

“Uncle Deran’s not very gay then.”

Nobody says anything for long enough that she shrugs, “can we play Go Fish?”

********** Day 128 **********

“So how do you just forgive them for ignoring your existence?” 

Lena stops when she hears Mandy’s voice through the crack in the door. She was going to knock, to see if they were ready to stop crushing each other and come out to play.

“I don’t know, it’s not really like that…” J responds slowly.

“It’s not like that? You grew up with nothing more than your junkie mother, in a shithole apartment, couldn’t even afford clothes and shoes? While they’re what? Just down the street living in excess?”

“That’s not entirely what I said. My mom was, yes a junkie. But she was, that wasn’t all she was. And I had neighbors that cared for me. It wasn’t like I was all alone. I don’t know. The more I get to know them, the more I think I lucked out by not living with them when I was young. By not knowing Smurf. I don’t know. I guess the only two people that really know what happened between Smurf and my mom are dead, so I’ll never really know why they hated each other. But, being down here with my uncles, I guess I can be glad I at least had a mom that loved me. They had things, sure, they had a lot of material things that I never did, but they had a mom who was,” he sighs, “sounds like psychologically and emotionally abusive. Cath hated her, didn’t want Lena around her. Nobody is, I mean, it’s not Oprah with them, no one is just sharing their Smurf-fucked-me-up story, but she sounds fucked up.”

“So you’d take a shit life with a junkie mom who loved you, over a nice comfy life with more than your basic needs met with Smurf?”

“Yeah.”

Mandy’s quiet for awhile, long enough that Lena’s hand rises to knock on the door, but stops when she says, “I wish I had that option. The choice of a parent who loved me.”

She sounds sad. And Lena wants to just go inside, hug her. But she’s learning this door-knocking thing. It’s polite. So she knocks, “can we color yet?”

“Yeah,” she sniffles a little.

J responds, “give us two minutes and we’ll be out there.”

“Two minutes. Starting now,” she calls on her way down the hall to set the kitchen timer.

********** Day 132 ************

“What’s it like up there?! What’s it like up there?!” tugging on Mickey’s hand as soon as he takes his alien suit off.

He tweaks her nose with the hand that spells F-U-C-K. Mommy said she can’t say that word, but she hears the grown-ups saying it all the time. She likes to trace the letters on Mickey’s fingers, sometimes he lets her do it with a marker. 

He bends down to her level and smiles, kind of a weird smile. It looks more sad than happy, “it’s a world that is not ready for something as wonderful as you.”

********** Day 143 ************

“We can either be friends, or we can fuck. But not both.”

Lena can’t sleep. And she heard Uncle Craig leave the bunk room. So she followed. She’s been hiding in the hallway outside the kitchen for awhile now. She’s not eavesdropping, that’s what Mommy calls it, she says it not polite. She’s just checking on Uncle Craig. He seems sad lately. 

“The two don’t mix well.”

Lou is making him sad. Lena doesn’t understand why anyone would want Uncle Craig to be sad.

“Why not? And who said anything about being friends? Maybe I don’t want to be your friend.”

Not be friends? Why not? They have fun together. They make each other laugh.

She can hear some movement so she snakes her head around the corner just in time to see him reach for her face. She’s leaning against the counter and he’s standing in front of her, watching her eyes.

They don’t say anything for a long time, just stand there and stare at each other, which isn’t polite either. 

“Nah, that shit gets way too complicated way too fuckin’ quick for my taste,” she shoves off the counter with her hands and he takes a step back. 

He looks really sad now, but she’s walking this way and Lena has to bolt, otherwise she’ll get scolded for eavesdropping. Which she wasn’t even doing. 

************ Day 159 **********

“I don’t understand why I have to learn this stuff. There won’t be schools when we get out of here.”

“No,” J taps the paper wrapper with his pencil. They mostly ran out of paper, so now they have to use wrappers and there’s still one marker that works on the dry erase board, “but you need to know how to communicate. And you need to know math because it’s the building block for every single thing in this world.”

“What world?”

He sighs, leans back in his chair and watches her, he has his thinking face on. J doesn’t have to think often, because Uncle Deran said he’s like a genius or something, but he’s thinking right now, “Lena, it’s up to us to rebuild this world. And we can’t rebuild it if we can’t do math or read and write.”

“Why?”

“How you gonna brain a zombie if you don’t even know where a brain is?” Mickey wonders, as Ian kicks him, “what fuckface? It’s a legitimate question. How you gonna build a shelter if you don’t know angles? How you gonna convince the cannibals not to eat you if you don’t know how to talk to ‘em? If you know all the right stuff, you can take over the tribe, lead the cult, and rebuild your own little community. If you’re dumber than a box of rocks then you ain’t got shit anyone wants so what’s to stop ‘em from killin’ ya?”

She wants to know if the rock on his necklace is dumb. She wants to know a lot of things about the things he just said, and she’ll have to start from the start, “what’s a fuckface?”

********** Day 227 ************

“I’m gonna get you,” Uncle Craig is running after her. She was stacking the Old Maid deck so she'd get the pilot match. And he just figured it out. And now he’s going to tickle her to death. She squeals, turning quickly into the first bunk room, without knocking, she doesn’t have time to be polite when it’s life and tickle-death matters. 

“Shit,” she hears Lou say in that whispery way that people do when they’re surprised. 

She stops in the middle of the room, looking down at the ground in case there was grown-up stuff happening in here. But Lou’s alone. Lena’s eyes scan the floor between them and crawl up her legs. Leg. Her peg leg is leaning against the bunk. And her broken leg is propped on the knee of her other leg. It’s bloody, but she’s got a knife in her hand, not a bandaid. She pulls herself to standing quickly when Uncle Craig comes in behind her. He stops at her back, his big hands on her shoulders. Giving her a squeeze, “Lena, go back out to the kitchen. See if your mom needs any help with dinner.”

“Okay. Sorry I didn’t knock.”

“That’s okay,” but her voice is all full of tears, Lena can tell even though she can’t see her face.

“I’ll knock next time, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay,” Uncle Craig’s hands squeeze again, “I’ll be right behind you.”

She cranes her head to look up at him. He nods at her and she nods back, “okay. I won’t cheat again. If you’ll play with me after dinner.”

“Well if you do cheat, I’ll have to tickle you to death.”

She smiles back at him when his teeth start to show a little. But she doesn’t really leave. She only goes as far as the door, and she leaves it kind of open. She wants to know what happened. Did something happen when Lou was outside yesterday? Did she get hurt then? 

It’s quiet for a long time. For long enough that she thinks about just leaving, asking her later if her boo-boo is okay. 

“Need a new socket,” she finally speaks, it’s all quiet, like the way Uncle Pope talks when he’s saying something he knows he shouldn’t say but he can’t help himself sometimes, “don’t exactly got access to that shit. Gotta make it fit somehow.”

Uncle Craig doesn’t say anything but when she peers around the side of the door she can see his arms wrapping around her middle and pulling her towards him. Lena knows from experience that’s the best place to be when you feel sad enough to cry.

********** Day 279 ************

“Yeeesss, hell yes, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Uncle Deran sounds really happy. 

He’s been spending a lot of time in the root cellar with Mandy, Lou, and J lately. A few months ago they looked like they were preparing to grow some flowers. When she asked if she would help, all she got was some hair tousling. 

“Told ya we could figure this shit out.”

************ Day 291 ************

Everyone is losing their mind. It smells like skunk and they won’t stop giggling.

************ Day 317 **********

She just keeps walking back and forth. Back and forth. In front of the door. She’s been on a crutch that Uncle Craig made for her, she’s been on it for a few weeks now. And they had a big family meeting and voted that she wasn’t allowed to go outside until they figured out how to fix her leg. Lena’s never seen anyone so mad. 

********** Day 318 **********

“I don’t know what it says. Don’t know what language that is. Can narrow it down for you, it ain’t English,” she’s got a smile on her face when she says it but no one laughs, “ain’t Chinese, or Arabic, or…”

“It’s Russian,” Mickey leans over her shoulder and looks at the thing on the table that looks like a little rocket ship. Uncle Pope and Uncle Craig brought it back from outside. They were gone all night, everyone else came back after a few hours. But they said the two of them were going to explore a little longer. Lena wasn’t sure how Lou’s hat didn’t fall apart, the way she kept pulling it off and on all night. And now she looks really tired. 

“How do you know that?” Ian wonders.

“Dad had a thing for the Russian down at Sasha’s, whore had some poster thing on her door. List of her services but it was in Russian,” he shrugs, “wasn’t fuck else to do sittin’ in the lobby.”

“You know Russian?” Mandy sounds like she doesn’t believe him.

“Uh, I know a bunch of Russian words for jerkin’ a cock, suckin’ a cock, fu…”

Mandy punches his arm, “we get it.”

“I don’t. I wanna know what the words are,” Lena tugs on his hand.

“Oh shit, you’re way too fuckin’ quiet kid,” he squeezes her hand, tweaks her nose, “get outta here for awhile and I’ll play zombie tag with you later.”

“Can I know what’s Russian for cock? I wanna know what roosters say in Russian. Or do you only know cock and not doodle doo? What’s a cock without a doodle doo?”

“Uh,” everyone else has gotten pretty quiet, but they’re mostly hiding their faces, “a little help here, maybe?”

“Stepped in that one yourself,” Mandy pats his shoulder on her way by, “I’ll play hopscotch in the hallway with you if you can tell me what four times three is.”

************ Day 337 ************

They haven’t had lights all day. Lena would rather have Uncle Craig here with her than Uncle Deran, but his breathing sounds are okay too. And Uncle Craig went up with Lou and J to figure out the power situation. He wouldn’t let her go up without him even though he was up all day yesterday. There was a big fight about her leg, but she shoved it on anyway and acted like it didn’t hurt even though everyone looking at her could tell it hurt. 

“Uncle Deran?”

“Lena bean?”

“What are you going to do when we can leave here?”

She can hear his breath all the way through his chest, it moves her head and everything, “see if anyone blew Belize off the face of the Earth.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s a country in Central America. The surf is great there. The sand is warm. The sunsets,” he sighs again and doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Can I come?”

His hand slides through her hair, “I doubt it kiddo.”

************ Day 345 ***********

“Belize, huh?” Uncle Craig sounds mad.

She only told him because she asked him where he was going. She’s been asking everyone. She’s just curious. No one else had any plans, not really. So she thought maybe Uncle Deran would take everyone.

“So you’re just going to run away? Just like always?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Fine,” he turns to walk out, Lena watches his shadow leaving the room, “I’m not coming after you this time.”

********** Day 365 ************

“Happy two years underground,” she hears Ian announce when she goes over their bunk room to find Uncle Craig.

“Fuck two years underground.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What better way to see some things unfold than through the eyes of a child? Lena's probably about six or seven here.
> 
> Alright, so we've gotten to know the AK characters a little better (if you watch the show, then yes, I'm taking a few liberties. But I think taking them away from Smurf's influence in their season one arcs, give them some time to distance themselves from her abuse, they'd grow into better people. I didn't take any of their ships because I can't get on board any of their ships until they each get some time to grow as individuals without Smurf's presence.)
> 
> Slow burn on a J/Mandy ship. Slow burn on a Craig/Lou ship. I don't know how serious either of them will be. Maybe just that little bit of healing Mandy needs. I haven't decided yet. 
> 
> And... here comes Mickey for year three...


	31. Bunker: Year Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's Mickey... at his finest of course.

Bunker: Year Three

 

********** Day 1 *********

Fuck bunkers.

********* Day 27 *********

Fuck bunkers.

********* Day 93 *********

Fuck bunkers.

********* Day 132 *********

Fuck bunkers.

********* Day 234 *********

Fuck bunkers.

********* Day 300 *********

Seriously fuck bunkers.

********* Day 365 *********

“For fuck’s sake Ian, just move,” he’s standing in the doorway, just fuckin’ standin’ there. Like Mickey ain’t behind him waitin’ for a chance to get out. 

Fuck. Every time they explore, they go just a little further, stay out a little longer, go beyond that ridge or that ridge or that ridge. It’s all been dark, dusky all day long, cold. It’s been, well, fuck it, he’ll admit it, it’s been scary. Honestfuckingly. 

And today, today is fuck it. Today is, “holy fuck,” he watches as Ian steps outside. The sun, the fucking sun. It’s weak and it’s got so much fucking shit in the atmosphere to pull apart and push through, but a tiny sliver of sun is caught on Ian’s hair. It looks like his fucking hair is glowing. Embers in a fire. 

It’s so fucking beautiful. He sees his fingers out of the corner of his eye, reaching out, touching the fire and taking a deep breath of air, the first deep breath of air without a gas mask for three fucking years. 

Jesus, that fucker got tall. But he turns, he turns at the contact of Mickey’s hand, and he’s got that dopey fucking smile, the same dopey fucking smile he’s always had. Three fucking years. Being together nearly every single fucking moment, fuck. If they survived that, then they can survive anything. Anyfuckingthing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snip... snap... what? Not yet, really?
> 
> So that's the urge right now. But I promised a post-apo. So we'll get there eventually. Part two coming soon-ish. Maybe. We'll see. I feel a little blah about this one. But I wanted to finish it before the season and then go dead air during the season, but I'm not sure I can pull together a post-apo in the next month or so. I don't know. Maybe posting a super far out of canon work during the season is the way to go, probably most works being posted during the season will be fluff and smut fill-ins and that's not my style anyway... 
> 
> Meh, I guess I make no promises but we'll get there eventually. Thanks for surviving the apocalypse with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments appreciated :)


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